The Ragtag Bunch of Misfits
by MadeOfSquirrels
Summary: Five of Skyrim's young denizens set off on an epic adventure of intrigue, daring, mystery, terror and sweet rolls.
1. Chapter 1

Arbelle sat on the edge of the stream, revelling in the cool water that ran over her feet. It was getting late, but she had earnt this; the shop gleamed, there was firewood stacked almost to the ceiling in the shed, and she had even started making a stew. She had roughly ten minutes to get back before it would be ready, and she leant back into the autumn sunshine, smiling. Her hair would return to its usual dull brown, lacking the sun's golden streaks.

It would be sad when all the leaves began to fall from the trees; Frostfall would be here soon enough, the ground too cold to walk on without boots, and the little stream would completely freeze over.

So absorbed in her thoughts was she that she had not even noticed the stranger until he had sat down next to her, and she jumped.

"Sorry," he apologised, and held out a brown paw that was mottled with gold. In it sat a golden chain. "You dropped this as you passed our caravans outside the town."

Arbelle blushed as she remembered strolling past the Khajiit caravans outside the village, head down. She had not been paying attention, and had tripped over a rock on the way to the stream; she guessed her bracelet has simply come off as she had reached out to catch herself. She took it from the Khajiit's hand, and slid it back onto her wrist.

"Thank you," she murmured, and he smiled, baring two small fangs. "How can I thank you?" He put up a paw in protest.

"What is your name?" he asked earnestly.

"Arbelle," Arbelle said, and he nodded. "You?"

"Ma'savir," he replied, and daintily dipped his feet into the stream, looking a little displeasured at just how _wet_ the water was. "Why are you out here alone? Who knows what walks out in the woods, even in the daylight?"

"I work hard all day in the shop," Arbelle said quietly, "so I took some well-earned time off." She looked out, into the sunlit forest, and the Khajiit tilted his head in acquiescence.

"You own a shop? I thought you looked far too young," he replied in puzzlement, and she shook her head.

"It's my mother's shop, really. Well, it isn't truly a shop. It's the village apothecary," she explained, and the Khajiit nodded. "But my mother was busy today…" They fell to talking, about the village, about the caravans. He was regaling her with tales of Elsweyr when a cloud passed over the sun and jolted her from her reverie. Her hand flew to her mouth. "I need to get back! I left the stew on!" She stood up, and then a faint, sweet smile crossed her face as she thought of a small reward. "Would you like to join us?"

"Khajiit are not often welcomed within city walls," Ma'savir said warily, and Arbelle shook her head.

"Nobody in the village will mind. We aren't Solitude, or Whiterun," she said. "And my mother won't mind." _She probably won't even notice_, she thought to herself, a little bitterly, and the Khajiit stood up.

* * *

"Mother?" Arbelle called, and there was a reply from upstairs. "Mother, tea will be ready soon. We have company!" She turned to Ma'savir, and motioned him to sit down at the table. "I hope you like rabbit stew."

"It sounds wonderful," the Khajiit said gracefully, and a woman appeared at the top of the stairs. She was almost identical to Arbelle, with long brown hair and green eyes, but she was hunched over – not with age or injury, it appeared, she seemed almost too young to be a mother – but with some unseen cares or worries.

"Greetings," she said quietly, and Ma'savir stood up to introduce himself. "Oh, it's okay, don't bother. Arbelle!" she said hoarsely, and Arbelle looked up from the cooking pot. "Did you remember to clean out the chickens?"

"Yes, mother," Arbelle said gently, and her mother sat down at the table. "Here you go." She placed the bowl down in front of her mother, and then another one in front of Ma'savir. "This is Ma'savir. He found my bracelet and returned it to me."

"So where are you from?" Arbelle's mother said pleasantly to him, and as they struck up conversation Arbelle smiled. It was nice to have her mother talking to someone, after all this time, even if it was simply a stranger she had brought home in gratitude.

After the meal, Ma'savir took his leave, leaving Arbelle and her mother sat by the fire in quiet contemplation.

"Why did you bring him around?" her mother asked, and Arbelle turned to look at her. "You know the Khajiit are famed for stealing things."

"He seemed nice," Arbelle said defensively, and her mother clicked her tongue.

"You don't know the world. You're a fool," she said, insouciantly, and Arbelle felt a hot flash of anger ripple up from the bottom of her stomach. She swallowed it, as she always did, and replied in a flat, even voice.

"Did he steal anything, Mother?"

"Don't cheek me, Arbelle Merdene," her mother snapped. "Now you get to bed."

Arbelle felt more anger well up into her eyes, and as she made her way to her bedroom, she felt herself wishing she was a Khajiit like Ma'savir. She could wander free, without being beholden to anyone, especially not her ungrateful mother.

She crawled under the scratchy wool covers, and found herself fervently wishing that her father was still alive. Reaching under her pillow, she took out the ragged doll he had made for her and held it tightly.

* * *

Ma'savir lay inside the tent that had been hastily thrown up outside the village limits. His father had questioned him on his whereabouts, and his mother had scolded him for not keeping the valuable bracelet, but on the whole there were no words exchanged about why he had not been manning their stall, which was better than he had hoped. He could still hear them talking outside.

"T-Ash'ni, he is but a child," his father growled, and he heard as his mother placed something heavy down on the ground.

"He needs to settle down, Kahr!" she replied. "He is too fanciful. He will be an adult next year. He should have been manning the stall, and where is he? Lazing about with some manmeri who drops a trinket that should be now, rightfully, his."

"The laws of the holds do not read 'finders keepers', T-ash'ni," his father said jovially. "And we are in a new place. He is allowed to explore."

Ma'savir turned over, curling into a ball as he did so. He was going to do more wandering tomorrow, so he did not pay heed to the conversation. He thought of the young woman, and smiled. He would go and visit her again tomorrow, maybe take her some Moon Sugar as a thank you gift for the dinner. Maybe ask her to show him around, if she were not too busy…

Sleep overtook the young Khajiit as he lay there, the warmth of the campfire washing over him.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Arbelle awoke to silence.

She slid her legs out of the bed, and padded across the rough wooden floor, peering down from the landing to the room below. She could see her mother pottering about behind the counter, and a rebellious thought crossed her mind. Maybe she would just stay in bed – her mother could sweep her own floors for once, rather than sit there with her feet up, criticising. She could cook the meals – no. Arbelle shook herself. That wasn't being a good daughter. Even if her mother never recovered from her father's death, she would continue being a good daughter until the day her mother died. She turned around, and began to pull on clean clothes and a pair of boots. She would have to go hunting today.

The door swung open, and she turned her head briefly to see the customer. He was shirtless – but it was so cold today! – and wore fur armour on his legs, and boots as well. Another wandering warrior, she assumed, here to buy some deathbell or nightshade. She heard him begin to talk to her mother, and heard her mother answer in her usual harsh, clipped tones, which made her wince a little.

Maybe she would wait until the stranger had left, she mused, and snuck another look. He seemed to be wearing _antlers_. How bizarre…

"Is there anybody else in the house?" the man asked, and Arbelle winced. Her mother would surely come and ask why she was not downstairs, tending to things.

"My daughter is out collecting firewood," her mother said, and Arbelle smiled. Maybe she could slip out of the window and grab an armful of wood from Lars at the mill, and then come in the front door, as cheery as could be.

The man drew a sword and impaled her mother.

Arbelle's mind almost shut off in that moment. She watched in stunned silence as her mother gasped, hands still pawing at the sword through her midriff, and then slid backwards, the man having to shake the sword to free it from her body. Her mother lay on the floor, still twitching, and then the man looked up.

His brown eyes interlocked with Arbelle's green, and there seemed to be an eternity where they just stared at each other, her eyes full of accusatory terror, his full of calm determinism.

"Come here, girl," he called, and she fled into her mother's room.

She could hear him on the stairs as she frantically searched for a place to hide – why had she not just clambered out of the window in her bedroom? – and as she heard him set foot on the landing she flew to the wardrobe, hiding herself inside it. Maybe, just maybe, she could hit him in the head with the door, or she could blind him with a shirt over the head. Something. Anything.

She heard the door creak open.

She heard footsteps running along the corridor.

She heard the sound of fighting. A snarl. The thud of a sword as it bit into flesh. A scream, and another hiss. A sound like a rake being dragged across hard stone. A clank.

And then somebody approached the wardrobe.

She braced herself, spine pressed against the back wall of the wardrobe so hard she imagined she could feel every knot in the wood. Her feet scrabbled for traction against the smooth wood of the floor, and as the door opened, she screamed.

"Calm down!" Ma'savir yelped as she scratched at him, eyes closed. His paw clamped around her hand, and she opened her eyes, staring at him in barely disguised horror. "Calm down, Arbelle, it's me, it's only me, Ma'savir, come on."

"They- they-" she mumbled, and looked around him to see the man's body lying, contorted, on the floor. Blood was soaking into the floorboards. "I'll never get that stain out," she whimpered, brain shutting down a little. "My mother, oh, my mother…"

"We have to _leave_. Come with me, I'll take you to the caravans," Ma'savir said, his voice slow and patient and coaching, and Arbelle nodded. She had gone horribly pale, and Ma'savir prayed she didn't faint. If she did, he might just have to leave her here. "Can you walk?"

She nodded mutely, and he pushed her in the small of the back all the way out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

"Wait," she said, and grabbed a satchel, beginning to shovel handfuls of ingredients from around the shop into a purse. Ma'savir grasped her wrist. "Wait!"

"Arbelle, they are attacking the entire _village_!" Ma'savir shouted, and she turned to him, looking almost as if he were lying. She could not accept something of this enormity. "They are burning everything! Let's _go_!" He turned to leave, and she flew to his side, casting one wide-eyed look back at her mother's corpse.

Outside was like nothing she could imagine.

The tiny town was suddenly a roaring mass of flames and death, and she could hear the screams of the dying as she stared into the smoke and ruin.

"Come on," Ma'savir said, and pulled her along through the smoke. She stumbled over the rocky paths she had known since birth, mentally checklisting every building as she staggered past it. The mill – now a towering inferno. Sverda and Jorikk's house – she could hear screaming. Gjinn's cottage – aflame, Alf the goat standing not two feet away from it casually eating some thistles.

"No!" Ma'savir gasped as they reached the edge of the village. The caravans were gone – only one remained, on its side, blood splashed about as though a giant had had a nosebleed. "No!" He began crying out in Ta'agra, before turning to Arbelle. "Where do we run?" he asked, a note of desperation in his voice now that hadn't been there before. "Where can we run? Where are there caves, mines, anywhere we can hide?"

Arbelle motioned towards the mountains that bordered the village, and the Khajiit shook his head.

"No, we will get lost, we will fall from a cliff, and be eaten by monsters," he said, and she looked back into the burning village. "Ah, we are doomed anyway. Out of the cooking pot, into the fire." And he seized her hand once more and pulled her into the crags and valleys of the hills.

* * *

"We should be safe here," Ma'savir decided. They had run until Arbelle's feet had begun to bleed, and then they had kept running as she had not broken her silence to say anything until finally Ma'savir had noticed her whimpering gasps of pain. They had stopped by a cave that steadily regurgitated a small stream, allowing her to sooth her feet in the cool water, and now Ma'savir was setting up a small camp inside the cave mouth. He dared not venture into the darkness, for of course one heard tales – of undead monsters, mages, and of more mundane risks such as skeevers and giants. Instead, he had chosen this sparse cover, and desperately hoped that the natural quiet of the hills and the treacherous scree underfoot would betray any interloper on their tail, and the bubble of the stream would disguise their noise.

Arbelle opened the pouch she had seized in her house, and began to pull out items. She pulled out a flint and tinder, and set it down on the grass reverentially.

"Did you get any food?" Ma'savir asked, and she shook her head. "Then we will have to hunt. Not ideal, with no weapons." He turned to her. "Can you use any weapons?"

She nodded.

"Well…?" he asked, and she opened her mouth.

"B-b-bow…" And then she burst into noisy, desperate tears that echoed back from the cave mouth and sounded like mocking laughter. Ma'savir knelt next to her, and quietly panicked to himself. He had to get her to be quiet, but… but… by Mara, he knew how she felt. His own parents were gone, maybe not dead, but definitely gone, and he knew not where. So he took a deep breath, and wiped away her tears until she finally settled into hiccupping silence.

"Now, Arbelle, you have to pull yourself together," he said gently, and she nodded, staring at him almost fiercely. "We can't afford many tears for the dead in Skyrim." She nodded again. "We need to find food." He glanced around him. "Do you know what is edible in this wilderness?"

"There should be snowberries, up nearer the snowline, and juniper berries everywhere, of course" she said, quietly. "There might be pheasants, or rabbits. Wild garlic. Fish in the rivers, of course. It's getting too cold for bees, but we might find old hives with honeycomb. There might be skeevers, in the caves." She shuddered a little. "There's plenty, if we can look."

Half an hour later, and the sky began to grow dark. They had indeed found wild garlic, and some juniper berries which seemed to be everywhere, and were busy eating them tucked into the cave mouth. Arbelle had built a fire, and used the flint and tinder to make sure that they were, at least warm.

"So what do we do know?" she asked quietly, and Ma'savir shrugged.

"We get out of here. I need to find my parents," he said. "We hit the road, and we pray those madmen have not trailed us. Then we get to another town. We can't be far from Markarth." Arbelle nodded, and yawned widely. "You are tired. If you sleep, I will watch first. Then you will watch whilst I sleep."

"Okay," she murmured, and looked around, finding a long flat rock that didn't look too uncomfortable or wet. Lying on it, it wasn't long before Ma'savir heard her snoring gently to herself, and he settled down, using his night eyes to scan the surroundings. It seemed safe… he hoped.


	3. Chapter 3

Ma'savir opened his eyes to see Arbelle kneeling next to the mouth of the cave, peering over the rocks as if she were a child playing hide-and-seek. She was staring intently into the distance, and as he pushed himself up on one elbow she motioned him over. Creeping to her side, as silent as a shadow, he positioned himself behind a rock and looked at where she was staring.

There was nothing. A few sparse, straggling trees, a rock, the odd juniper bush…

There was a movement.

"Go," Ma'savir murmured, and she backed into the cave mouth. "Go!" He turned, and began to pat out the fire, and she vanished into the shadows. He took one glance around and followed her into the cave.

"Are you sure we're safe?" she whispered as they knelt just inside the cave. Her skirt must have been getting soaked, but she did not complain, and as Ma'savir felt the cold settle into his hind limbs, he decided they would have to find some new clothing. He turned to look into the cave, and discovered to his slightly horrible shock it was totally flooded. _That_ was a last resort.

"Stay here," he said quietly. "I will investigate."

"Be careful," Arbelle murmured, and he nodded, stealing to the mouth of the cave. There was a moment where he disappeared into the bright light outside of the cave, and then reappeared a moment later, smiling. It wasn't a wide, friendly beam, but it would do.

"It was a deer," he said, visibly relaxing, and Arbelle floundered through the water to join him. A deer stood on the other side of the rocks that formed a cradle around the cave mouth, chewing disinterestedly.

"Oh, thank god," she murmured, and the deer trotted away.

"Come on, let us go," Ma'savir said, and he clambered on top of the rocks, scanning the horizon. "If we stick to the road-"

"Won't they be sticking to the road as well?" Arbelle said, and he mused.

"It is not far to Markarth," he said firmly, and she nodded. "Let us go."

* * *

"The girl was a Breton as well," the Forsworn archer said, and the leader sneered, flipping Arbelle's mother's corpse over.

"Traitors to our cause," he spat. "Find them and kill them. Then nobody will know this _wasn't_ the work of the Empire." He pulled an imperial sword out, and proceeded to ram it into the woman's stomach, leaving it like a grisly flagpole to claim this carnage for the Imperials. He turned and strode outside, where he stared out over the snowy mountains and rocky, scree-filled hills of the Reach.

"Where _are_ you hiding?" he growled.

"How far should we chase them?" an archer asked, striding up to him. "If we try to cross into one of the other holds…" The glare he received silenced him.

"As far as you can, then," the man snapped, and the archer nodded. "Take Veric and Nolene. Oh, and, Edwinn… make sure they're sober and _stay_ that way. You remember what happened last time…"


	4. Chapter 4

Ma'savir crept to the edge of the cave mouth and looked down at the path.

"Okay," he said quietly, watching the water trickle down the hill. "If we walk down here, and then cross that bridge," he pointed to the bridge that forded the small river the stream became, "then we go along the road straight to Markarth."

"Is it straight there?" Arbelle asked nervously, and Ma'savir nodded. He really had no idea, but he knew his way around, roughly, and it couldn't be _too_ far. Now they just had to hope that they did not encounter bandits along the way, or worse, their attackers; he doubted they would have pursued them this far, anyway. He doubted they had even noticed that they had escaped, if it came to that, but he knew there was probably no use in telling Arbelle. Poor girl still seemed in shock.

He took her arm gently, and she nodded, setting her jaw firmly. That was more like it, he thought, and as they began to slide down the scree slope, he was glad. When he left her in Markarth, he could be sure she could look after herself.

* * *

Meanwhile, about two hundred yards away from the burnt remains of Arbelle's village, a dead Argonian lay in the wake of the Forsworn looters, his body twisted and impaled on crude spears and tongued arrows.

From the shadows by the side of the road, a small shadow split off from the trees and went to kneel next to the body, lifting its hand and holding it gently to its heart.

"Father?" the figure whispered, hitching a little, and then stood up, wrapping their cloak around themselves. If the eyes truly were a window to the soul, these would have opened onto a frosty plain, with nothing for miles and miles except the fleeing figure of a Khajiit.

Then the figure stood up, fingers wrapping around a small, iron dagger in their belt, and re-joined with the woods.

* * *

The few miners still outside of Left Hand Mine as the evening began to roll in stared in surprise as the Khajiit and the Breton stumbled across the bridge toward Markarth, both supporting each other. The girl had a long trail of blood down the side of her face, and the Khajiit was bleeding heavily from his ribs, and together they made it to the gate of Markarth before Ma'savir fainted.

* * *

The figure stopped at Purewater Run, sitting atop the cave mouth and hissing a little as he saw the destroyed fire next to the entrance. His scaled fingers, clumsily wrapped around the dagger, tightened, and then he winced and let go, dropping the dagger into the water as he examined the cut on his finger.

"-ah!"

He cursed as he saw the shiny glint of his dagger vanish downstream and over the lip of the hill, and he jumped down, landing on a sharp rock as he did so.

"-_ow_!"

* * *

Ma'savir opened his silver eyes to see Arbelle. More accurately, to see her curled up on the bed across the room, dark hair fanned out on the pillow like river weeds. She snored.

He slid his legs from the bed, groaning, and patted a paw to his side, brushing against the linen wrap around his side. A thrum of pain rippled through his side, and he mewled a little, biting down on his tongue to keep him from waking Arbelle.

"You're awake, Khajiit."

He turned, and a man stood there, arms crossed.

"Name's Hreinn. They carried you in here half dead, Khajiit," he said, and Ma'savir lifted a finger to his lips, pointing to Arbelle. "Ah, yes, and your friend. What were you running from?"

"Her village was attacked," Ma'savir said, and by the time he had finished his story Hreinn was shaking his head, sad gaze fixed on Arbelle.

"Damned Forsworn," a voice behind him said sweetly, and a young woman peered into the room from behind him. "I'm Hroki. We have plenty of meat and mead, Khajiit. When she wakes up, you two come and eat your fill." She put a hand on Hreinn's arm, and gently hustled him away, leaving Ma'savir to cross the room and watch Arbelle.

She seemed mostly unhurt – the wolves that had attacked them had been chased off by Ma'savir's claws and the rocks Arbelle had thrown at them – but there was a long scar down the side of her face, and she looked small and washed-out. He pulled the covers over her, tucking her in, and jumped as someone cleared their throat behind him.

* * *

The figure arrived at Left Hand Mine as the moon reached the horizon and light began to filter through the sky once more. He would hide in the lake, he decided. The Khajiit, scum that he was, would be thrown out eventually, with or without the Breton, and then he would… he would…

His sliced fingers ached as he clutched at where his dagger had been, and he sighed. Maybe he'd steal a rake or something from the park. He was wondering if this was worth it, actually; supposing the Khajiit was really tough, or something? Then he remembered his father's dead body, and his green eyes narrowed. Revenge would have to be exacted. If it was sensible.

* * *

"I am Legate Emmanuel Admand," the man said as he pushed the flagon of mead towards the Khajiit. "Hroki and Hreinn told me about your little misadventure."

"I would call it more than a misadventure," Ma'savir said slowly, and the man nodded, facial expression unchanging.

"Well, we want to know more about the Forsworn. If they're marching on small villages and encampments," he said, fingers toying with the handle of his tankard, "we need to put a stop to this now. Otherwise, it makes the Jarl look weak; you understand what I'm saying?"

"I understand, yes," Ma'savir said, quietly thinking that if _maybe_ the Bretons and the Nords could learn to share and perhaps be a tad less xenophobic, a lot of problems in Skyrim would be avoided. "I honestly cannot tell you anything other than I told Hroki and Hreinn, though. We were camped outside the town when they attacked."

"So, how did a Khajiit end up travelling with a Breton?" the man asked, and Ma'savir shrugged.

"We had met the prior day," he said, and looked at the door to the room where Arbelle still slept. "I was meeting with her in order to ask about the local area, and I entered the town to find the Forsworn attacking."

"You don't speak like a normal Khajiit," Emmanuel cut across gruffly, and stared at him. "Thought you all spoke like 'Han-Za this' and 'Oleeme that'."

"I have spent a long time in Skyrim," Ma'savir said politely, wishing that he was an adult so he could even _vaguely_ threaten this imperious man. Emmanuel smiled, a condescending smile that made Ma'savir's claws involuntarily slide out a little.

"Good. Guess that makes you more trustworthy," he said, and Ma'savir smiled, keeping his paws under the table as his claws retracted. "Well, cat, tell me your tale from the top…"

* * *

"You think the Argonian got up again? After that?" Edwinn said incredulously, and Veric shook his head.

"Nope, but something's on the same path to Markarth as us, and it's definitely scaly, sir," he said, and saluted, banging his hands against the antlers on his helmet. "Ow!"

Edwinn inwardly groaned. The universe seemed to enjoy lumbering him with idiots like these; apparently, only fools wanted to fight the Nords these days.

"Yup," Nolene said, and crossed his skinny arms across his rather stretched frame. "Green eyes, and when it saw someone coming it leapt into the river. Saw it drop its dagger in, too," he sniggered, and Veric joined in the laughter.

"By Arkay, the lizard's almost as intelligent as you two," Edwinn said, a smirk crossing his weather-beaten face, and Nolene and Veric's faces creased in thought as they tried to figure out whether this was an insult or a compliment. "_Move_, by the Nine! Get ready to swoop in on them, as soon as they leave Markarth!"

* * *

"I suppose this is goodbye," Ma'savir said to Arbelle, who pursed her lips slightly as they sat together in the inn. "I'm sure you will be okay here. There are farms nearby, and many mines. I'm sure you will find work and a place to live."

"Where will you go?" she asked, voice a little shaky. He noticed her toying with her bracelet, and looked into the bottom of his tankard of mead reflectively.

"I must find my family," he said, and Arbelle tilted her head.

"Why not let me come with you?" she asked, and he looked at her, eyebrows raised. She smiled, a real smile, and her green eyes lit up just a little. "I have nowhere else to go, and I'd rather help you out than stay here and… and…" He understood. Her fear that the raiders would strike again was a real one, but who knows what dangers they would face? And she was barely an adult, after all.

"I'm not sure if…" he said, and saw the pain in her face as soon as the words had left his mouth. "I…" She nodded, and took another gulp from her tankard, eyes averted. She felt abandoned, and she had every right to, he guessed. He was leaving her in a strange city, with no living relatives, but that was simply the way things worked sometimes. There was no time for sympathy in a world where you could die at any moment, for any number of reasons.

So when he found himself in the middle of telling her she could go with him, he was very surprised and a little annoyed with himself.

* * *

Outside of Markarth, two separate enemy camps were setting themselves up in as hidden a location as they could. One in a small lake, with green, lizard-like eyes glaring out of the darkness, and one in the hills, roasting food over an open fire, and laughing as they drank ale out of crude wooden cups.


	5. Chapter 5

Ma'savir walked out of the gate of Markarth into the dim light of morning, stretching, and Arbelle followed him, feet stumbling over the rocky floor. It felt as if neither of them had had enough sleep, but they had not wanted to impose on the kind owners of the inn any more than they had; besides, a man with a terrifyingly enormous nose had come into the inn to make a casual inquiry into the strangers and had given them such an odd look they had immediately decided to leave.

Now, they were going, both wielding iron dagger given to them out of pity, with a small – very small – bag of food as well, and they were going…

"I believe they would have headed out of the Reach, most likely into Falkreath," Ma'savir said, brandishing a torn piece of paper that held the brittlest map they had ever seen. "So we need to head east… past this Orc stronghold _here_. Back towards the village, I'm afraid…"

"We won't be welcome there," Arbelle said quietly, ignoring the last half of the sentence, and Ma'savir nodded. This was a little daunting, he thought to himself, and Arbelle placed her finger gently on the map, sliding it across. "Maybe if we head to this… Valthume."

"That'll be an old Nord tomb," Ma'savir said, and the Breton nodded. "Could be full of divines-know-what."

"Well, it'll be a good point of reference. We can stop, plan our journey from there," she decided, and Ma'savir nodded. Maybe she could be of use after all – she did know a little about alchemy, after all, and that was never a bad thing. "If we follow the road, we might come across your caravans."

* * *

The figure watched as the two set off down the road, and slipped out of the lake, scuttling into the shadows. He was actually sorely regretting this – the urge for revenge was fading, and the urge to go and mourn his father in peace settling into his bones. Nevertheless, he had begun now, and he might as well carry on. Perhaps.

He had stolen a dagger that had been lying around outside Left-Hand Mine, and was now following them to wherever they were headed, which for some reason appeared to be the way they had just come. But whatever. It'd make it easier to go home, actually, after he killed them both. Or just hurt them.

* * *

Following the figure was the three figures of Edwinn, Nolene and Veric, who were heading _into_ the lake to swim across unseen.

Five minutes later, Nolene and Edwinn were dragging a purple and drowning Veric out of the lake, and Edwinn was calling the two of them every name under the two moons whilst a small crowd of local farmers were watching in interest. Luckily they were wearing normal armour, their Forsworn armour hidden away so as not to attract attention – well, any more attention, or they could have added a hail of arrows to their troubles.

"I swear, in the name of the daedra, I'm going to kill both of you," Edwinn snarled.

* * *

It had begun to drizzle by the time they reached the second bridge, an hour of travelling behind them, and they stopped for a moment, looking up the waterfall as it cascaded over the rocks, diamond spray drifting towards them and making rainbows in there air, at where they had hidden the previous day. Purewater Run, Hroki had told them it was called. They could see some arches from here as well, long-forgotten Dwemer ruins marked on the map simply by a small symbol.

"Looks drier than out here," Ma'savir joked, and Arbelle giggled faintly.

"Nothing looks dry in the Reach, except the rocks," she corrected him, pulling the brown hood Hreinn had found her up over her hair. "That's why everything's so scrubby. Just enough rain and they grow, too much and they're washed away." She looked up the path, and laughed, this time whole-heartedly. It was a comforting sound for Ma'savir to hear from her. "Like we're going to be – these stones are going to get slippy."

As they started up through the rocky mountains that the Reach was known for, a dark shadow slid out from under the bridge and slid after them.

* * *

His quarry was heading through a rocky pass, and he saw in frustration they seemed to be heading to an Orc stronghold. If they were in with the orcs, he was just going to turn around and head home; the three Forsworn who seemed to think he was unaware of them – clumsy land-dwellers that they were, thrashing around in the lake like whales – could deal with them, and that would be that. He had seriously underestimated this.

He leapt across the rocks, and saw as they approached the stronghold an Orc sprint up to the top of the gateway. Well, this should be interesting.

"You!" the orsimer bellowed, and the duo stopped. "Get away from here!"

"We're just passing. We don't intend to enter your city," Ma'savir said smoothly, put an arm across Arbelle. The orc glared at them, and then back into the city, where there appeared to be some kind of ruckus going on.

"Alright," he growled, and there was a cry of '…_priceless sword!_' "Get on your way!"

A priceless sword? The Argonian raised an eyebrow. Now, this sounded more like his thing. Maybe he could stay here and ask the Orc what that was about. He was about to when he saw the Orc glare up at him, and slid back until he was out of sight. Nope, maybe not.

"Do you know there's an Argonian following you?" the Orc barked at Ma'savir and Arbelle, who looked at each other, confusion written all over their faces. "Looks a bit shady, if you ask me. You aren't trying anything, are you?"

"No," Ma'savir said politely, and the Orc nodded suspiciously.

"Alright. To the left you go. And stay away from that damned Nord ruin up there!" he snapped. "Full of trolls and goodness knows what else!"

As the duo skirted the walls, still hearing the sounds of whatever was going on – somebody was shouting about the Dunmer now, and there was the sound of a small fight – Ma'savir turned and looked behind them, suspiciously.

"An Argonian, eh?" he muttered, and Arbelle shrugged.

"As long as we keep our wits about us, we should have no problem," she reasoned, and shivered. "I don't like what he said about Valthume though."

"We're not going _in_ there, Arbelle," Ma'savir reminded her. "It is merely our first… resting point. We'll reassess the situation outside and then work out a route for where to go next. Whether we should head north and remain in the Reach or head into Falkreath to the east." He grinned at her, and she nodded, stopping for one second to adjust the strap of her knapsack.

The terrain opened up here, and in the near distance Ma'savir could see a tower. It looked like the rest of the Reach's buildings – slightly alien in their stonework and masonry, cold and uncomforting. He would take a cosy wooden house over their dwarven stone any day – or the flexibility and freedom of the skin tent.

"That was built by the Dwemer as well," Arbelle told him, unfolding the map. "How bizarre that they vanished before their buildings."

"Things last that are built in stone," Ma'savir told her, and grasped her arm. "I was told that by a Bosmer that travelled with us for a few days. Ironic they should live in trees, eh?" He grinned, and they began to walk again.

"Why do you say 'I'?" Arbelle asked curiously. "I notice most Khajiit refer to themselves by name…"

"I have lived in Skyrim most of my life," Ma'savir told her. "I have not been to Elsweyr since I was a little cub." He sighed as the rain got a little heavier, and somewhere in the far distance thunder rolled like Akatosh clearing his throat. "It was a lot warmer. A land of shifting sands and blazing sun."

"I'd love to go," Arbelle murmured, and Ma'savir nodded.

"Maybe we will," he told her, and they continued up the hill.

* * *

"I'm cold and wet. Edwinn, why are we following this girl anyway?" Veric moaned, and Edwinn bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed.

"She saw the attack on the village. If we kill her, we can frame the Nords, and this will be a step towards regaining our lands," he said, as slowly as possible. Nolene nodded, and then folded his arms.

"But what if she told somebody in Markarth?" he asked, and Edwinn opened his mouth, his mind actually sounding alarm bells at this suggestion, before slapping Nolene in the face.

"Shut up, idiot! Nobody will believe the words of a child and a Khajiit!" he snapped. "Especially not one who just survived a Nord attack."

"Ah," Veric nodded, and then looked puzzled. "But… we attacked them."

Edwinn put a palm to his face, wincing at just how stupid these two were.

"If you two say another word that isn't helpful or relevant, I'll punch you both in the face," he suggested helpfully, and they both looked at each other. "Now, why don't you go and sort out that stupid Argonian. Maybe we can use it; maybe we can just kill the stupid beast."

* * *

The lizard was creeping up on the duo, watching as they meandered around rocks, when he felt a hand on the scruff of his cloak.

"Well, hello there, Scales," Edwinn growled, and the Argonian struggled briefly. "Nuh-uh."

"Where's the girl going?" Nolene demanded, and the Argonian shook his head.

"I don't have a clue, boys," he said truthfully, and yelped as Veric patted him down. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Checking for concealed weapons!" Veric barked. "Can't have you cuttin' my throat like the slimy bastard you are!" The Argonian's eyes narrowed, snakelike.

"Veric, calm _down_," Edwinn sighed. "Scales, why are you following them, then?"

"Because I plan to kill the cat responsible for the death of my father," the lizard spat, and Nolene tilted his head.

"Wait… wasn't that u-" he began, and Edwinn kicked him in the stomach. "_Oof_!" The Argonian's eyes narrowed further, the missing sound at the end of the sentence not throwing him off at all, and Edwinn raised his sword.

"You can help us kill them, if you like, or we can kill you," he snarled, and the lizard nodded thoughtfully.

"Well, yes, I can see why that'd be a plan…" He brought one callused foot up into Edwinn's groin, and the man dropped him, groaning in agony. He ran as soon as he hit the ground, and behind him he heard furious shouts and the drawing of weapons.

* * *

Arbelle and Ma'savir had stopped to admire the view.

They had come to a steep hill covered in scree and juniper bushes, and were gazing at a ruin in the far distance, debating over what it might be.

"It looks Nordic," Ma'savir was arguing.

"How can you tell?" Arbelle asked, squinting. "It looks like it's covered in corn flour." She leant forward, and Ma'savir grabbed the back of her dress to keep her from falling. "Eep."

"Valthume is to the… east, yes?" Ma'savir asked, and Arbelle leant back.

"Let me check," she said, and was consulting the map when the Argonian came rabbiting into them, yelping. They both took a look at him, surprised, and then Ma'savir drew his dagger, snarling. The Argonian put both of his hands up in horror.

"Run!" he shouted, and an arrow struck into the ground. Arbelle grabbed it, and at the sight of the dual-pronged arrowhead her face went as white as marble.

"Forsworn," she gasped, and the Argonian grabbed their arms.

"_Run_!" he tried again, and they did, stumbling along the rocky path. "Where are we running exactly?"

"Valthume," Arbelle panted, and another arrow thudded into the ground by her feet. "Yah!" The Argonian grasped her arm and sprinted, almost dragging her along. "There!"

The entrance was carved out of the side of the mountain, and as they reached it Ma'savir rammed into the enormous metal door with his shoulder. The Argonian and Arbelle joined him, and together they managed to push it open, tumbling inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Edwinn stomped around the chamber, snarling. Veric and Nolene were standing next to the skeleton, and predictably messing about.

"Hello!" Nolene chirped, manipulating its jawbone. "_I am a Nord. I am a big shaven bear…_" Veric laughed hysterically, and sat on the arm of the throne, slinging its arm around himself.

"Will you two _stop messing around_?" Edwinn roared, and the two jumped up, gulping. "They've got to have gone into the ruins!"

"Forgive me if I'm wrong..." Nolene began.

"Okay, you're forgiven," Edwinn said flatly. "Get your weapons and _get in there_."

* * *

"Who are you?" Ma'savir snapped, and the Argonian sneered at him, before taking Arbelle's hand and kissing it. How he did this without lips was an interesting thing to consider.

"My name is Milos. My father was murdered by those Forsworn bastards," he explained, and Ma'savir shook his head.

"You were following _us_. Also, let go of her," he snapped, and Milos dropped Arbelle's hand, rolling his yellow eyes. "Why?"

"I thought you had killed my father. I came to seek revenge!" he said proudly, and Ma'savir growled, claws sliding out of his paws. Milos squared up to the Khajiit, who squared up just as eagerly, fingers sliding his iron dagger from his belt.

"You two," Arbelle murmured, staring at the room.

It was clearly a tomb, and a coffin sat in the centre of the room, sparkling onyx-black in the light of the torches. Milos wandered over, and gave it a disinterested kick.

"Respect the dead, snake-tongue," Ma'savir hissed. Milos tapped the lid.

"Hello? Anybody in there like to make a formal complaint?" he asked, and there was silence. "Looks like nobody's in, mouse-baiter." Ma'savir snarled. "Where _is_ this, anyway?"

"An old Nord tomb," Arbelle murmured, and there was a thud from the next room. She whirled, and Milos made the decision to grab her and run, leaving Ma'savir to follow them, down the right side of the room.

Milos charged into the hallway with no hesitation, tumbling down it. He didn't spot the rune on the floor, and as his foot hit it only Ma'savir grabbing Arbelle's arm saved both of them from the log that swung out of the ceiling.

"They've got to have heard that," Ma'savir snarled, and dragged Arbelle back. "In here!"

* * *

"Through here!" Edwinn roared, and, appearing in the doorway, charged down the right side of the room. "Veric! Nolene!" The three Forsworn charged into the passageway and past the now-gently swinging log.

Back in the main room, on the _left _side, the trio crept out of the collapsed hallway, listening anxiously for sounds that the others were returning.

"Well, lucky for us that big throne-altar thing's in the way," Milos murmured, and Ma'savir snuck over to the main door, which had swung shut behind the Forsworn. He began to try and push it. "We're going to have to go through the ruins," he mumbled in disgust, and turned to the others. "We're stuck here. It won't open."

"That can't be," Arbelle murmured.

"You come and try your strength," the Khajiit said peevishly, and she rolled her eyes.

"Well, we're just going to have to find _another_ way out," she sighed. "Come on."

They snuck into the next room as carefully as possible, listening at every step for the noise of the Forsworn. The room was a preparation room for the dead, they guessed. This was informed by the presence of embalming tombs, the thick smell of bitumen and saffron, and the withered dead body on the slab.

Arbelle recoiled, Ma'savir's blue scales paled a little, and Ma'savir leant forward, nose wrinkling in disgust.

"His skin is like leather," he grimaced. "He must have been down here for a long time." Milos was beginning to turn a little green. "Rot has not set in at all."

"That is how embalming works," Arbelle mumbled, still looking sickened. She began to look around the rest of the room, determined not to look at the corpse, and eventually found a book that wasn't rotten or destroyed as Milos and Ma'savir took turns prodding the corpse with sickened disgust.

"Don't pick up stuff," the Argonian suggested, and Arbelle raised an eyebrow, waving the dusty book at him. "It could trigger pressure plates…" he tailed off, realising he had not gotten _her_ name.

"Arbelle," she told him. "This is Ma'savir."

There was a noise from the next room, and they started, Milos actually yelping a little in fear. Ma'savir grinned widely at him, and the Argonian cursed under his breath at his lack of self-control.

"Let's go," he snapped.

Arbelle was actually _reading_ the book as they went into the next chamber, and Ma'savir kept having to steer her around things. As they crept into the now-silent room, Milos peered over the edge.

The room was almost like a church, with an enormous grate in the centre of it and benches now strewn wildly across the floor. A chest stood at the centre of the room, now open and empty.

"I can't see anyone," he whispered. "What if they're gone?" Arbelle was still leafing through the book. "Arbelle!"

"_Just a minute_," she whispered, and then closed the book with a snap. It disintegrated into a fine dust as a final protest at this treatment, and she jumped. "Damn."

"What was that?" Ma'savir asked, and Arbelle raised her hands. A light flickered between them, eventually forming itself into a small fireball that hovered like a torchbug between her palms. "Magic?"

"We need all the advantages we can get," she murmured. "And it's in my blood, after all." Ma'savir looked at her – the faint golden tinge in her skin, the high cheekbones, the defiant glare in her eyes – and decided privately that maybe there were things in her blood she shouldn't be too proud of.

"Okay. There were three, right?" Milos said, and Ma'savir nodded. "If we _rush_ them…"

"We'll die," Ma'savir finished, and Milos glared at him. "We need to split them up. Separate them." He crept forward, and one of the Forsworn strode into view.

"They've vanished into the ruins," the antlered man barked at another, who trotted out of a doorway. "It's too dangerous to go further in, as well."

"Why?" the other asked, snatching an arrow from the floor and fitting it to his bow nervously, and the other man sighed. "Draugr?"

"Yes, Nolene. Damn dead piles of paper an' bones that don't know they should lie down yet," he reassured the other man. "They're only kids… we can leave 'em to be eaten by those undead Nord monstrosities. Chances are they've stumbled into a trap anyhow. Got their little legs crushed by rocks or singed off by flames. It's okay…"

"That girl was one of us, though, Edwinn," the archer argued, voice whining and chidlish. "She's _tougher_ to magic than the cat or the lizard." Both Ma'savir and Milos hissed under their breath. "What if…?"

"She's not going to be tougher than a log to the chest, Nolene," the leader said sharply. "Call Veric, tell him we're going. Try not to fall over your own _legs_ on the way down…" The archer nodded and vanished into the catacombs again, and as the man turned away from the group, whistling cheerfully, Ma'savir was already on it. He crept to the edge as silently as a shadow, _sliding_ rather than leaping from the edge, and landed behind the Forsworn. He had slit the man's throat before a sound was made, and Arbelle and Milos followed him down the wooden ramp into the main room.

"Do we follow him?" Arbelle mouthed, staring at the dead body, and Ma'savir nodded. Milos' mouth dropped open, and he shook his head, pupils contracting to mere papercuts.

"Are you crazy? There are two Forsworn lunatics down there, not to mention, oh,_billions of undead Nords_ who were _cursed to roam the Earth forever_ because, oh, they _worshipped world-eating dragons and practised cannibalism_!" he hissed, and Ma'savir nodded.

"That's why we're going to come back out _this_ way," he said patiently. "Look, either we run, and we have these guys track us all the way to Sovngarde, or we can remove them from the picture and have a much more pleasant ride to Windhelm."

Milos looked at Arbelle unsurely, and she looked at the floor, bending over to pick up the sword the Forsworn had dropped.

"Take this," she said. "If nothing, it'll give you courage." Milos looked most uncertain of this, but took it anyway. She bent down and loosened a few arrows from the band around his waist. "At least it's sharp."

"Ladies first," Ma'savir smiled widely at Milos – he bared all of his teeth, anyway – and Milos crept forward, cursing the Khajiit race in its entirety under his breath. "Hang on… I have an idea…"

* * *

"There's so much _mead_ in here!"

"Yeah, Veric, and it's all for the dead, so don't touch it in case they come and want it _back_."

The two Forsworn were clowning about in the chamber below when the man toppled from the ceiling. Veric actually screamed, and Nolene fell over in shock.

"Is that Edwinn?" Veric yelped, and Nolene crept forward, turning him over. The look of surprise and the ragged neck wound were all he needed to see to be sure.

"Yeah!" he whimpered, and scuttled back to Veric. "Veric, he's dead. Edwinn's dead, Veric." They drew close together, and from the ledge at the top of the room Ma'savir had to stifle a laugh.

"Gosh, such cowardice," he mused, and turned to Milos. "Do you know them, Argonian?" Milos wrinkled his nose. "Come on." He began to creep down the ledge, and Milos followed him, Arbelle stumbling slightly over her dress. Not that it mattered; Veric and Nolene were far too preoccupied with Edwinn's body in case it got up again.

"We're gonna die, Veric," Nolene moaned in terror, and Ma'savir coughed right next to his ear.

"Ma'savir feels you may be right," he murmured, and Nolene fainted, closely followed by Veric. The Khajiit looked in surprise at the two bodies, and then at Arbelle and Milos, who both shrugged. He raised his dagger, and Arbelle shook her head. "Arbelle, we cannot leave them!"

"Why not? Let's take their armour and their weapons, and let them figure their own way out," she said, and Ma'savir raised an eyebrow. "It's better than what they were going to do to us. I'm not comfortable stooping to their level."

* * *

"That armour is far too big for you," Milos whispered, and Arbelle nodded, pushing the helmet up from where it had slipped. "You can barely see!"

"If you want the helmet, Milos, all you have to do is ask," she whispered, and he tilted his head. She took the iron helmet off, and settled it on his head. "There."

"You're risking damage to your head," Ma'savir warned her, and she nodded.

"I'm risking damage to _everyone_ if I'm throwing around spells and I can't see," she reasoned. "I hope there's no ghosts or anything in here."

"He said 'draugr', didn't he," Milos said nervously, huddling up behind Arbelle. "What are draugr?" Arbelle shrugged. "Ah, good, good. Rushing into a, uh, situation without knowing what's there. No, no, that's all good."

"Shut up," Ma'savir sighed.

"Can we not all just get along?" Arbelle asked, voice sharpening a little, and the two boys did indeed shut up, glaring at each other. "Come on. We need to get out."

The trio crept forward, listening intently for the slightest sound out of the ordinary. The tomb was mostly silent, although sometimes trickles of water from the surface or crumbling rock caught their ears. Once or twice, Ma'savir's sharp ears caught the sound of a screech, and as he realised the others had heard, he chose to keep it to himself. No sense in terrifying them, he thought.

They reached an iron door, and Ma'savir and Milos put a shoulder to it. It swung open surprisingly easily, and they both looked at each other smugly. There was a squeak, and Arbelle screamed.

A skeever jumped at Ma'savir, and sank its teeth into his arm. He gave a yowl of pain, and pulled out his dagger, stabbing it. The next skeever to appear ran at Milos, who was bowled over by the impact of the enormous rodent slamming into his chest, and he hit at it with the handle of his sword, dashing its brains out as Ma'savir danced around, trying to get the skeever to let go of him.

This left Arbelle alone noticing the figure shambling towards them, sword raised high. She couldn't even let out a whimper, the flames in her hand dying as her arms sank down by her sides in terror.

The draugr stared at the trio for one moment with eyes that glowed as blue as the inside of infinity, and then roared.

"_Dir ko faas!_"

* * *

_AN: Hey, everyone who's reading this! Thank you so very much, I hope you're liking it so far. I was wondering if any of you could or knew anyone who could draw me a cover image for this? I would do it myself, but... it wouldn't be very good, to be honest. Thank you!_


	7. Chapter 7

Arbelle let out a shriek, and Ma'savir and Milos spun around to see the draugr charging their way. Milos shrieked, flailing wildly with his sword, and Ma'savir grasped Arbelle's arm, dragging her backwards.

"_Where are we going_?" she yelped as they ran.

"Tell you… when we arrive," Ma'savir panted, and they careened up the steps past the prone bodies of the still unconscious Forsworn. "Maybe… he'll… go for them…"

The draugr did no such thing, barely even glancing at the duo as it charged after them. As they rounded the corner into the main room, Milos stopped, turning around.

"What are you doing, Argonian!" Ma'savir snapped, and Milos looked at him, rolling his eyes, before stomping on the rune on the floor with all his might.

There was a crash and the draugr flew through the door, propelled by the enormous log. Milos turned and pushed the others away, and they fled to the iron doors that would lead them outside.

"Come on, come _on_," Arbelle grunted, pushing it as hard as she could, Ma'savir and Milos hastening to help her. She could hear the draugr as it continued to come for them, relentless. "Come _on_!"

"_Fus roh dah_!"

The next few seconds were really confusing. It was as if they had been hit by a gust of wind, and they flew forward as the doors were pushed open, tumbling onto the grey stone floor of the entry-way.

Arbelle was first to drag herself up, and saw the draugr standing above Ma'savir, sword raised in the air. Fire crackled in her palms, and she blasted it at the creature, watching as its paper-dry skin went up in flames. It howled at her, blue eyes blazing, and she continued, feeling her energy drain as she kept it up. She hoped it would die soon, because otherwise she was going to run out of magic-

Ma'savir kicked it in the chest as her hands fizzled into ordinariness, and sliced at it with his dagger. Milos took the opportunity to grasp Arbelle's wrist and pull her outside, where he stared at her, eyes narrowed, as he panted to regain his breath.

"Breton, right?" he asked, and she nodded. "That explains _that_."

Ma'savir appeared, smoothing back his dark fur, and nodded at her.

"Well done, Arbelle," he said, and smiled. "Thank you."

"Well, that took longer than anticipated," Arbelle said quietly, as they trekked along the path. "So now what are we going to do?"

"He is leaving," Ma'savir said, and Milos hissed in anger. "What?"

"Without me, you'd be dead! Those Forsworn would have snuck up on you and sliced you into pieces before you knew it!" he snapped.

"Without _you_, lizard, we would never have had them on our tail in the first place!" Ma'savir growled, and the Argonian clicked his tongue.

"They were tailing you _way_ before me! They were looking for you when they murdered my father!" he hissed. "If I hadn't gotten you into Valthume…!"

"…the place we were _headed_ to…!"

"…we'd _all_ be dead!"

"We'd have gotten there _fine_!"

Arbelle sat on a rock to watch this interesting debate. She was not sure why Ma'savir and Milos seemed to have hated each other from the get-go, but she was sure there would be a fascinating reason. In the meantime, she was going to find something to eat. She was not stupid – she would not wander out of their sight – but the food in their packs was not enough for three, and she could see the Argonian had not brought any food. She had taken a liking to him, even if he was a little… individualist, and if his father was dead, the least they could do was make sure he got to a town.

"…and… where's Arbelle going?" Milos asked, breaking off the argument, and Ma'savir turned to see her making her way across the field. "Why is she travelling with you, cat?"

"Her mother was murdered by those Forsworn," Ma'savir explained scathingly. "She travels with me until she can find somewhere she will be safe." Milos clicked his tongue, eyes softening as he looked at her. "I travel until I find my parents. Hence we may be on the road a long time."

"I'm fine with that," Milos said innocuously, and Ma'savir growled under his breath. There was a howl, and they both spun around. "Wolf." His hand flew to his sword, legs almost _audibly_ revving up to run, and Ma'savir snickered. "What?"

"Always ready to swim to safety, little fish," he laughed. "It's probably okay…"

* * *

Meanwhile, in a Nordic tomb, Nolene and Veric were very, very cold, naked, and weaponless. Their only real consolation was the bottles of mead which they intended to use as weapons against whatever the hell it was that was making that _noise_.

"It keeps growling things," Veric whimpered, hiding behind Nolene, who was barely as wide across as one of Veric's arms. "What do we do?"

"Shall we backtrack?" Nolene suggested. "Maybe… maybe we'll find the brats."

"But I can _hear_ things," Veric whispered. "And the _brats_ killed Edwinn!" Nolene remembered this. He also remembered this meant he was technically in charge, and his pigeon-chest inflated as he took in a deep breath.

"Hyes, Veric! This means _I_ ham in charge, and I have the hresponsibilities that Hedwinn had!" he said loudly. Veric's fuzzy eyebrows lowered in confusion and slight trepidation.

"Why are you speaking like that, Nolene?" he asked, and received a slap for his trouble. "Ow!"

"_Hready?_" Nolene snapped. "_Hmarch_!"

…and off they marched, deeper into the tomb.

* * *

"So we're agreed. We head into Falkreath," Milos said, spreading the map out on the floor. Ma'savir looked up from the cooking pot, and nodded. "On a second note, we do not permit Arbelle to cook ever again."

"How was I to know it wasn't as easy as alchemy?" Arbelle said sulkily, eating what she had cooked. It had been rabbit, before it had become mostly charcoal, but she was eating it anyway to prove a point. A disgusting, slightly slimy, crunchy, burnt point.

"It's infinitely easier than alchemy," Milos sighed, shaking his head. "Why do you think the cat can do it?" Ma'savir hissed under his breath, and Milos smiled widely. "We head into Falkreath and ask the guards if a caravan came past. If it didn't…"

"We turn back and head up towards Solitude," Ma'savir finished, and Milos nodded. "We need to stop and get some useful weapons. We can't pass through the Reach wearing Forsworn armour, it is asking for trouble."

"We'll be attacked on sight," Arbelle agreed. "I can mix up some potions, in case we run into trouble or anything. Poisons etcetera."

"You can do that, but you can't _cook_?" Milos asked teasingly, and she rolled her eyes, before reaching over to the tiny satchel she had filled back at her house. "What a strange girl."

"I can make stew, but in a house, over a proper fire, with the proper ingredients," she clarified, and began to sort what was in the bag. "Let's see… yes, I can make a healing potion from this. Maybe a magicka potion." She twirled a red mountain flower around in her fingers, and lifted a butterfly wing into the air, smiling as orange light filtered through it. "Not sure if I can make a stamina potion, but I think we're all fine to walk long-distances anyway. Can I have a bowl?"

As she busied herself, fingers flying as she found a small stone and began to crush and mix the ingredients, Ma'savir finished making the – rather delectable-smelling – rabbit stew, and Milos sat there, feeling rather useless. So he reached out, and located several small reeds, grasping the small, rather feeble dagger from beside Ma'savir and using it to make a small, grassy panpipe.

"Oh no, it thinks it's a _bard_," Ma'savir sighed, and Milos shut his eyes for a moment before opening them and smiling pleasantly at the Khajiit, flared nostrils the only thing betraying his annoyance.

"Oh no, it thinks it's the Gourmet," he countered, and raised the pipes to his mouth, blowing a sweet, reedy tune on them. The music soon fell into a pattern with the crackling of the fire, and the soft singing of the crickets, and the mewling cries of the goats on the hills around them.

And thus began the first night of their journey.

* * *

The grey fug of day in the Reach had turned to the dark of night when Veric and Nolene, scratched, bruised, pierced with arrows, covered in dirt and blood and screaming, emerged from Valthume. Veric was technically first out, landing on the grassy ground and rolling quite a way before scrambling to his feet. Nolene came sprinting out next, gasping for his breath, and grasped Veric as he ran past, tugging him along.

"What _was_ that thing?" Veric screamed, and Nolene shook his head, barely managing to stop before the two ran into a juniper tree. They cowered behind it, watching as the shambling body of their former leader dragged itself from the entrance.

"Edwinn. By Arkay, someone's _brought him back_," Nolene whimpered, and a gurgling groan that carried from the mouth of the corpse on the soft night breeze had them shrieking and running until finally, they were dots on the horizon.

"Excellent," a black-cloaked figure chuckled, emerging from the darkness beside the entrance of Valthume. Edwinn – or rather, his shell – turned to him and groaned again.

"_Release… me…_"

"I think not. Rather," the necromancer chuckled, "you will be the first."


	8. Chapter 8

Arbelle woke up to the smell of smoke and soot, and as she wriggled her way out of her sleeping bag she saw Ma'savir silently cooking something.

"Morning," she said sleepily, and he smiled briefly at her. "How are you?"

"Fine," he replied quietly, and she sensed that something was wrong, sitting next to him. "Really, Arbelle."

"I can tell you aren't," she said flatly, and he shook his head.

"The Argonian cleared off, and some of our food is missing," he said tersely, and Arbelle whipped her head around. Indeed, there was silence from all around, and she realised one of the backpacks had gone. "I told you not to trust him."

"Oh," Arbelle said miserably, feeling her stomach sink. She felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, cheeks flushing as she felt embarrassment wriggle up from her gut. Ma'savir said nothing, instead poking at the fire a little peevishly, and she stood up.

"I-" she said, voice cracking, and stood up, shuffling off downhill towards a steam. She loved being near water, she found. It helped her think better, the soothing bubble of a rushing stream, and right now, she didn't want to be anywhere Ma'savir. She felt like an idiot, to be taken in so easily.

Ma'savir watched her wander off, and shook his head, paying attention to the goat meat in the stew. They couldn't survive on rabbit meat, he knew, but the damned lizard had made off with most of the goat and beef they had, and who knew when the next deer or goat would cross their path? If they found him, he decided, he was going to string him up by his-

"What did I miss?"

He heard the voice, barely even daring to believe it, and turned to see Milos smiling smugly at him. With a snarl, he sprang up to his feet and lunged for him, knocking over the backpack.

"_Stealing our food_!" he roared, claws sliding out from his paws. They scythed towards Milos, whose eyes widened.

"By Sithis, I _didn't_!"

Milos dodged another blow from Ma'savir, wincing as the Khajiit's claws whistled past his ear, and pulled out a dagger, wielding it in front of him, scaled fingers shaking.

"You _would_ swear to Sithis, you hissing, water-breathing _snake_," Ma'savir snarled, eyes glimmering silver as he lunged at the Argonian again. "Steal our food? Betray our confidence? And then have the nerve to come swanning _back_?"

"_I did not take the backpack_!" Milos yelped, and leapt back as Ma'savir swung at him again. "Will you _listen_ to me, you _stupid _animal?"

This naturally exacerbated things, and Ma'savir leapt for him, letting out a leonine roar of rage. Milos threw the dagger aside and jumped after it, tumbling to the side as Ma'savir missed him by an inch. He felt a clawed fist sink into his arm, and grasped the dagger, wielding it as if he were more scared of it than Ma'savir.

Ma'savir dragged him backwards, pinning him to the floor, and raised his claw, ready to scratch the Argonian's eyes out.

"You just _want_ to hate me, cat," Milos murmured, and Ma'savir tilted his head.

"You are all pond-slime," he hissed from between his teeth. "Pond-slime from that Black Marsh." He raised a paw, and brought it down. "Where you should've _stayed_."

* * *

Arbelle was sat down by the water, staring at her own feet. She glumly considered simply lying down in the stream and letting it take her where it would by the will of Kynareth; it seemed an infinitely better prospect that going back up that hill and facing Ma'savir's silence.

And so she sat by the water, and did not notice the pad of hunter's paws until the wolf barrelled into her, knocking her into the river with a splash.

She inhaled in a panic, and took in a breath of water, panicking and choking as the water filled her lungs. She felt herself be picked up by strong jaws that clamped around her shoulder, and as she surfaced, vomiting water, it seemed as if chaos had enveloped her. She was thrown down once more, and surfaced, flailing wildly.

The wolf leapt for her, and she threw up her hand, wincing as the wolf's jaws snapped shut inches away from her. It whined, belly-flopping into the river as it tried to swerve away from the flames that crackled in her palm, and she cast the spell, watching as steam fizzled from the beast's wet fur. It whimpered again, scuttling away, and she staggered to the shore, fists raised as it shook itself, backing away, before unbelievably baring its yellow teeth and going in for another shot.

Her hands burst fire into its face, and she kicked it for good measure, throwing fistful after fistful of flame at it until it finally keeled over, fur singed and scorched. She backed away, staring at it, daring it to breathe again; then the pain bit into her shoulder, and she clasped her hand to it, looking in dull horror at the blood that coated it.

As she reached the crest of the hill, she saw Milos kick Ma'savir in the chest, pushing him backwards, and then roll over to stumble to his feet and away from him. Milos did not have a backpack, and this made her _angry_. Either he had ditched it in the woods and dared to come _back_, which made her angry at him, or Ma'savir had presumed too much and had gotten her upset and anxious – and attacked by a wolf – for nothing, which made her _very_ angry at him. Arbelle did not get angry very often, and if she did, she most certainly did not express it.

Which made the ensuing outburst slightly unnerving for Ma'savir, Milos, but mainly her. She stomped forward, and shouted as loudly as she could.

Ma'savir and Milos stopped to watch this tiny Breton let out all her frustration in slight terror, and when she stopped Ma'savir approached her warily.

"What happened?" he asked, and she turned, slapping him across the face.

"Hah!" Milos crowed, and received a slap of his own. "Hey!"

"Why do you two _hate_ each other?" she snapped, and the two looked at each other. "You've never _met_! What on Nirn is _wrong_ with you both?"

"He's a Khajiit," Milos said helplessly, and Ma'savir looked at Milos.

"He is an Argonian," he replied, and Arbelle shrugged, wincing as her shoulder twinged in agony. She sagged a little, and Ma'savir put an arm around her to steady her.

"I am a Breton!" she said, voice a little weaker. "Did _that_ make a difference?" Milos and Ma'savir looked at each other sheepishly, and then shook their heads. "I am part _mer_," she clarified, and winced again, voice now at a normal level. "Now, please, fetch me the healing potion in my bag."

Milos and Ma'savir scrambled for the satchel, bumping heads as they did so.

* * *

A few metres away, Veric and Nolene were rifling through the stolen backpack, stuffing food into their mouths with glee.

"They didn't even notice!" Veric chuckled, and Nolene laughed, munching away at a honey-nut skewer. "I still think we should've killed them as they slept…"

"No good," Nolene mumbled through a faceful of goat meat. "They outnumber us now, and even if we'd have gone for one of 'em, the other's might've gotten us." He swallowed, and continued. "That bloody cat's a smart one."

"So what are we going to do? They're heading out of the hold," Veric argued, and Nolene nodded. "So do we head back to the redoubt?"

"No," Nolene said, and Veric looked at him. "Can you imagine us going back without Edwinn? We're about as important to them as to the Nords right now." He mused for a moment, and Veric took the opportunity to steal some of the goat from his wooden plate. "No. We follow them into Falkreath. Who knows where they're going, but it's got to be _important_."


	9. Chapter 9

As the trio crossed into Falkreath Hold, Ma'savir supporting Arbelle as she would wince every time her shoulder jolted, the very air itself seemed to change, becoming lighter and easier to breath. The rocky scree of the Reach gave way to pine forests, and they gradually began to relax.

"I have to stop," Arbelle said as they reached a clearing outside a cave, and they all sat down. Arbelle began to tend to her shoulder, and Milos pulled out the map from his satchel, Ma'savir sitting next to him.

"I can't steal words from paper yet," Milos said, insouciantly, and Ma'savir narrowed his eyes. "So, this is… Glenmoril… Coven? I thought a coven was a group of witches?"

"It is. I don't think we should stay long," Ma'savir said darkly, and took out his dagger, examining it. "We need better weaponry."

"I thought we were being released at the next town," Arbelle said, a little sulkily. She had not fully forgiven the two for leaving her to be attacked – she was only so forgiving because it had shocked her into realising how much she lacked at fighting. "Aren't we?"

"It depends. At least one of those Forsworn died, but your insistence on leaving the others alive means that they may still be tracking us," Ma'savir replied, voice hard-edged.

"Those two milk drinkers wet themselves at the mere sight of you," Milos laughed, and Ma'savir slowly nodded. "I doubt they're going to chase after us without their boss whipping them all the way."

"One of you needs to teach me how to fight," Arbelle said evenly, taking the cloth away from the wound. The potion had almost closed the wound, and all that was left was a thin slice through the flesh surrounded by shiny pink flesh. Ma'savir was impressed – she hadn't been lying when she said she knew alchemy. Maybe he should keep her with him, he thought, trying to pretend he wasn't somewhat attached to her.

"I'll teach you some stuff," Milos said, still staring at the map. "But we'll wait until your shoulder's fixed, yeah?" He traced his finger along the map. "I guess we're heading to Falkreath then, since it's the only place really worth going in the Hold."

"Yes," Ma'savir nodded, and pointed at a building on the map as Arbelle knelt next to him, leaning in. "So we go past this 'Banemist'."

"That's an 'r'. Bannermist Tower," Arbelle corrected him, and looked at him. "Do you think there will be mist? If there are bandits, we could use that to our advantage."

"You mean I could. Neither of you are the most sneaky," Ma'savir chuckled, and Milos opened his mouth in protest. "Oh, Argonian, but how can you sneak when we can all hear your whimpers?"

"Better than your meowing," Milos grumbled, and Arbelle began to laugh.

* * *

Meanwhile, at a small hunter's lodge some way away from the trio, two men were skinning a deer when a dark figure swept past in a black robe.

"Thalmor," one snorted to the other, and raised his bow. "Reckon I could make the shot?"

"Brother," the other said quietly, and laid his hand on his arm. "Is it worth the consequences?" The elder grumbled, and lowered the bow.

"You are no fun," he sighed, and watched as the figure paused, and turned back. "Is he coming over? I won't sell to him."

"It's not an elf," the younger said quietly, and the figure came over, lowering his hood. A Breton face smiled at the two hunters, who were immediately a little friendlier – not _too_ much, after all, any magic-user was not to be trusted.

"Greetings, gentlemen," the man acknowledged. "How are we on this fine day?"

"Well enough," the elder said gruffly. "Bjorn. This is Erik. Would you like to buy or sell?" Erik winced at his brother's rough manner, and smiled apologetically at the Breton.

"Cidius," the Breton acknowledged, and looked around. "May I purchase some of that deer?"

"No," Bjorn said brusquely. "We have some dried deer in the back. Some rabbit and goat as well. And some horker. But this is a fresh kill and we're not done with it yet."

"I'll take it as it is," Cidius said, manner still pleasant in the face of Bjorn's aggression.

"The whole deer?" Erik asked quietly, and the calm smile was turned to him. He felt a faint sense of fear wash over him, and stepped back, staring at the magician. "If you can carry it, you can take it."

"No, he _can't_," Bjorn said sharply. "If you don't wish to buy anything else from us, I guess we're done here, Breton." Cidius nodded, and then nodded to Erik as well.

"Farewell," he said pleasantly, and pulled up his hood, turning and walking away.

"Sorcerors," Bjorn sneered, and Erik saw the faint glow surrounding the man's hands almost as his body, running on some kind of ancient instinct, tackled his brother to the ground.

The partially skinned deer's head swivelled as it looked up, and then struggled off of the table, bones and sinew poking through skin as it staggered across to where the necromancer stood, arms folded. It left a trail of blood as it did so.

"Bloody necromancers!" Bjorn roared, and Erik smacked him.

"Shut up!" he hissed, and Cidius smiled as he walked away.

* * *

"Bandits!"

Ma'savir hissed and sprang forward, pinning Arbelle to the floor as an arrow whistled over their heads, and then dragged her down the hill, listening to the laughter from within the tower as it carried on the wind to them.

"We need to lure them out," Milos hissed from the tree where he was already firmly ensconced. "Otherwise we'll never get past without going around for miles."

"Leave it to me," Arbelle whispered, and flames sprung from her hands. She let out a long whistle, throwing flames up, and leapt aside as an arrow flew towards her, before sprinting sideways.

Ma'savir began to sneak up to the tower, and Milos marvelled at just how perfectly his dappled fur blended into the dead leaves that coated the forest floor. When the snows came and the world was a mass of green and white, it would be a different story, but for now he was almost invisible.

Ma'savir watched as another flare of fire from Arbelle attracted their attention, and drew his dagger as he snuck up behind the first bandit, slicing their throat with barely more than a hiss from them. Unfortunately, that hiss attracted the attention of the other bandit, and they turned on him with a bellow, sword raised high.

And then they dropped it, yelping in agony as a fireball scorched their back, and Ma'savir drove the dagger into their eye, pulling it out as they collapsed, dying, to the floor.

"Well, that was-" he began, and was knocked to the floor by Arbelle as a war-hammer whistled over their heads, missing by mere inches. The bandit chief raised the hammer again as he stood over their prone figures, roaring, and then stopped as a sword burst from his chest, collapsing as Milos withdrew the shining weapon.

"A 'thank-you' is usually customary in this situation," he said casually, wiping the sword on the bandit leader's trousers, and looked at it. "Ooh, _iron_. This is much better than that Forsworn dung we were using."

"Of course you would attack from behind," Ma'savir said mockingly, quite missing the irony of his own words, and helped Arbelle up. "Well, at least you can fight, Argonian. Although you left it to the last minute."

"That's the best I'm going to get, isn't it?" Milos sighed, and dusted himself off. "Look at the stuff on these people! Leather armour! Proper weapons!" He pulled the helmet off of the chieftain and stuck it on his head, grinning. "Don't I look dashing?"

"You certainly look as if you are about to run off," Ma'savir mumbled, but he began to ransack the bodies as well, aided unwillingly by Arbelle. "More daggers… ideal."

"Hey, a bow," Arbelle nodded, and began to collect arrows from around the area, pulling them from trees. "I can use a bow."

"Good. This is starting to come together!" Milos crowed.

* * *

The trio arrived, kitted out in their new gear, at the small hunter's lodge just before sunset. They were so glad to see other people who weren't attempting to kill them that they missed the blood trail completely, and only the hunter's strange behaviour alerted them to anything wrong. But they dared not question it, reasoning that they would be warned off or told the story in time.

They were given a hearty if-not-a-little-stilted welcome by the two men, Erik and Bjorn, and handed over a few septims looted from the bandits for a warm meal and some mead.

"So what are three young…" Erik faltered for a moment, and then recovered magnificently, "adventurers like you doing out here?"

"We're searching for somewhere safe," Milos said. "The girl and the cat are being hunted by some Forsworn, so we figured we'd skip town and visit Falkreath." Erik nodded, and Bjorn grunted.

"Better not bring them here," he growled.

"Oh, we're in the next _hold_," Milos said glibly, "we lost them at some Nord ruins. Gorgeous place, very… rustic," he added, and saw Bjorn lose a little suspicion. "Full of scary dead things though. So we didn't stay there very long."

"Well, it's not exactly safe out here," Erik said warningly, and their attention all turned to him. He proceeded to relate the story of the stranger who had reanimated their deer and made off with it, and the trio winced.

"It was sickening," Bjorn snarled. "To make off with another man's property in such a… sacrilegious way." He glanced them all over, and nodded. "You can set up a tent outside tonight, if you wish to stay here rather than wander into the wilds. As long as nothing goes missing."


	10. Chapter 10

The next cold but sunny Falkreath morning, two lumber-mill owners stood and watched bemusedly as a Khajit, a Breton and an Argonian walked up the road with a map in front of them, arguing intensely.

"We are going the wrong way!" Milos was yelling, eyes blazing, and Arbelle snatched the map away from him to see better. He flailed ineffectually, and Ma'savir swatted him away.

"We are _not_ going the wrong way," the Khajiit snapped, fangs bared, and Arbelle pointed at the stream and then ran her finger down the stream on the map.

"Yes, we are. We must have been turned around in the dark, so we ended up at the hunter's shack… and now, we're at… Half-Moon Mill," she read aloud, pointing to the marker on the faded paper. "So we _are_ going the wrong way, if we want to go to Falkreath." She shut the map and glared at the other two. "I _told_ you both…!"

"Hello there!" the woman called, taking pity on them at last, and the trio glanced up in unison, anger transmuting to shock and sudden cautiousness. "Are you lost, travellers?"

"Hello!" Milos grinned lazily in return, yellow eyes widening at the sight of the pretty woman. He removed his helmet from atop his head, and bowed. "Uh, yes, I would say that we are. Lost in your ey-"

"We need to get to Falkreath," Ma'savir interrupted candidly, and Milos let out an annoyed grunt that the Khajiit ignored. "Can you direct us to the right path?"

"Not often you get a trio like you coming up. Are you bandits?" the man asked, eyeing up their armour suspiciously, and they shook their heads collectively. Milos let out a heartfelt sigh as he realised that this man was the woman's husband, and Arbelle patted his arm.

"Walk along the shores of the river, take the road that way," the woman said, pointing back the way they had come, "and you cannot miss it. You should go past Bannermist Tower…"

"We came from there last night," Milos groaned, putting a hand to his head, and turned to Arbelle. "I am never letting a woman map-read again." Arbelle elbowed him in the ribs.

"Why don't you come in and have a rest?" the woman offered. "I am Hert, and this is my husband Hern. Come in, we will feed you." She gestured to the small house, and Milos shook his head.

"No, I'm sorry," he apologised, "we really must be off."

"But you're just kids. Where could you be off to in such a hurry?" Hern asked, and Arbelle noticed that his eyes were worryingly red. Not just as if he were tired, either. The sclera was dull yellow, and the irises shone a dull scarlet in the sunlight. Ma'savir saw her start, just a little, and smiled, stepping forward and putting himself between the two.

"We go to meet her armed escort; she is to be married in Frostfall, you see," he lied, and Milos looked at them oddly.

"Yeah… she has to go and meet her escort, and we're… escorting her to her escort," he added, and Hert and Hern both nodded. Ma'savir saw the red gleam in Hern's eyes, and his grip tightened on Arbelle's wrist.

"Well then, far be it from us to keep you from your true love," Hert smiled, but there was no warmth there. "Happy travels to you all."

Milos, in an unusual display of tact, waited until they were down the road and out of earshot before turning to the others.

"What was _that_ about?" he hissed, and Arbelle shook her head, grabbing his arm and hurrying him on.

"His eyes. They were red. He was a…" She barely dared say the word, in case it somehow summoned the duo from their lumber mill like a daedra from Oblivion.

"They were _both_ vampires. She would have been his thrall, most likely, to protect him during the day, but by the look of her she was well on her way," Ma'savir said bluntly, turning to look down the tunnel of trees behind him. "They did not believe our lies. They know we travel unprotected at night now. We must be in Falkreath – or at least well away from here – by nightfall."

* * *

Nolene and Veric, on the other hand, were just entering Falkreath on the tail of the trio - more through sheer blind luck and path-following than any tracking ability - and were doing so very cautiously. This was unfamiliar territory for them, and they were unnerved by the enormous trees that blocked out the sun and meant they could barely see down the winding path before them. The paths were trodden amongst leaves and grass and mud, not over rocky passes, and the sounds of life around them were a little unnerving, especially when, every so often, something would grunt or snarl.

"I don't think we're in the Reach any more, Nolene," Veric murmured, and Nolene nodded, glancing around as _something_ gave a faint snuffle in the trees. "_Whatwasthat_."

"It's just… just a deer," Nolene quivered, hand resting on the stick he was using as a makeshift weapon. "Just a deer."

"_Nolene_," Veric breathed, and there was a moment where the Forsworn forager turned and saw flashing green eyes. The duo stared for a moment, before their movement began again at double-time. There was a snarl this time, definite, from the bushes to their left, and Veric swung around, gripping Nolene's arm. "Uh, Nolene? You know how this is a heavily wooded area, lots of wild animals, stuff like that?"

"Yeah?" Nolene squeaked, and Veric's grip increased as the eyes faded from green to red.

"Isn't this the kind of place Hircine likes? You know, to hunt in? And, er, stuff?"

The snarling from the trees took on a different tone, one of promised malice instead of warning. Veric backed away, and Nolene looked at him, wild-eyed.

"_Why would you mention that_?!" he hissed, and there was a howl from the hills before them.

* * *

It was midday as the trio reached a small ruin, a squat Nord dwelling that had been reclaimed by nature, by the roadside, and Arbelle, grimacing, motioned to sit down, rubbing her legs as she did so.

"I'm in pain," she announced loudly, fingers prodding her muscles, and Ma'savir nodded, flexing lazily as the noon sun sent a last-ditch wave of heat over them.

"You are a pain," Milos grinned, and she stuck her tongue out, grimacing as she found a knot in her calf muscles. "Well, we have to be almost at Falkreath, but I am famished _right now_, and we can always restock when we get there. Anybody want me to rustle up a meal?"

"How much do we have left?" Ma'savir asked, and Milos opened up the bags.

"We have three freshly-caught salmon," he looked at the others proudly, "two haunches of rabbit, a handful of juniper berries, two cloves of garlic, a few pieces of Elves Ear…"

"They belong to me!" Arbelle interrupted.

"And one or two snowberries," Milos finished, and the Breton nodded.

"Also belonging to me. But we can eat them," she expounded, as Milos made to hand them over. "Are you sure you don't want me to cook…?" Ma'savir and Milos looked at each other in horror, and then both shook their heads frantically. "Seriously, what is the matter with my cooking?!"

"What _isn't_ the matter?" Milos asked, and Arbelle gave them both a death glare. "I'll make us something nice. Cat, stand guard. Arbelle, relax." Ma'savir gave Milos a glare at the slur, but then crouched down and melted into the bushes, chocolate stripes becoming leaves as he went.

"I'm going to go and explore that ruin," Arbelle decided, standing up with a groan, and Milos raised an eyebrow.

"I thought your legs hurt?" he asked, and began to select pieces of firewood from around the campfire. "Ah, this'll do…"

"They do, but I think there could be some interesting things in there," the Breton explained, and Milos nodded, throwing her a dagger.

"Just in case. Could be filled with skeevers or any amount of gross stuff," he nodded, and she took it, shoving it into a pouch on her armour. "Be careful…!"

* * *

Veric and Nolene perched precariously on the highest rock they could find, looking down at the three wolves that stalked, growling, around the foot of the rock.

"_What do we do_?" Veric squeaked, and Nolene poked the stuck cautiously down at the wolves. One jumped - snarled - snapped - and the stick was suddenly a lot shorter.

"I think we're just going to have to make a run for it," the Forsworn advised, and Veric slapped him. "Ow…!"

"_You_ can jump into the mouth of a wolf!" the other man snapped. "In case you hadn't noticed, we have no armour and no weapons! If one of those sinks its teeth into us, we're going to know about it!"

Nolene thought for a moment, and then stood up on the rock, glancing around.

"What _are_ you doing?" Veric asked, and Nolene pointed.

"There is a tower, over there," he said, calmly, and dragged Veric up to standing, very nearly sending them both tumbling off of the rock. "Do you think you could make it to there?"

"Yes," Veric nodded, "if there weren't any wolves…"

Nolene pushed Veric, and jumped himself, both landing awkwardly at the same time. The wolves stopped for a moment, staring at the two winded men, and then all three decided that the fat one was probably the best to go for.

Nolene snatched up a rock, and threw it at a wolf's head. It turned to him, snarling, and the others turned, leaving Veric lying shaking on the floor. He gave a shout, and the wolves barrelled after him.

Veric struggled to his feet, and took off towards the tower.

* * *

Arbelle stood in the doorway to the small house, and peered inside, eyes adjusting to the gloom. It was a tiny little dwelling whose outside room ran in a ring around a central chamber that had fallen in on itself in time, smooth stone now chipped and scarred by the ages. A few trees had risen out of the central room, casting a cool shade upon the inside of the house.

"Hello?" she called, and there was a flash of green. She spun around, and there was another flash as well as a strange sound. It was as if the leaves of the trees had suddenly come to life and were whispering to her…

She froze as the figure solidified before her in a flurry of glowing bee-like creatures, stick-like arms raised in front of it in a warning pose. She began to back away, and the creature began to click at her like a death-watch beetle in a wooden beam.

She stumbled backwards into Ma'savir, who had crept in to investigate the tiny house himself, and together, they watched, awestruck, as the creature vanished skyward in another gust of bees, buzzing frantically.

They were silent for a few moments, and then Ma'savir smiled at her weakly.

"There are a thousand strange sights in Tamriel," he mused, "and I'm sure Skyrim holds most of all."


	11. Chapter 11

They arrived inside the stone walls of Falkreath just after the sun had passed its zenith in the pale Hearthfire sky, and immediately split off three ways, with a vague promise to meet at the inn at sundown. Each had their own personal matters to take care of, and the fact that this might be the last port of call for them as a group upset them all a little, although none of them would admit it.

Milos, with no clear path in mind and no aim as per usual, chose the tavern as his first port of call; the attractive woman outside led his wandering feet to Dead Man's Drink as straight as an arrow, and the Argonian gave a smile as she stopped her sweeping to glance him up and down, an eyebrow curved appreciatively.

"Hello," he grinned roguishly, and she gave a beaming smile of her own.

"Shor's bones," she purred, "a handsome young man in Falkreath." Milos felt his grin widen, and she extended her hand. "My name is Narri. Why don't I show you the inn?"

* * *

Arbelle stood in the graveyard, the sun's light settling gently on her face and her unfamiliar, heavy armour, physically unable to cry; her tears had gathered in her throat like a rock. Runil, Falkreath's Priest of Arkay, set a gentle hand on her shoulder as she regarded the pitiful tribute to her mother she had constructed.

"Too many die young," he said gently, and she turned her head to look away from the small cairn of stones he had allowed her to build. This could be all that remained of her family now, she suddenly thought, and it made her head reel, a whining noise rising in her ears until the sound of the forest around her was drowned out and it felt as if she were giddy. Three people that had once been so happy; one now years-dead, one violently murdered, and one… one adrift in the nothingness of Skyrim, with no more purpose than if she'd been cast into the Void by Sithis himself.

"She'll be with my father again," she said, her voice sounding harsher than she had meant. But she _felt_ bitter, and so it bled into her words like blood through water. Her family were together in Aetherius, and she was here, and she would soon be alone - if she did not tell Ma'savir that was not what she wanted.

"Arkay will take your mother's soul and keep it safe," Runil assured her, and she looked up at him, nodding. "We are all equal in death."

* * *

Ma'savir knelt deferentially before Jarl Siddgeir, who waved his hand and looked away, yawning.

"Stand, cat." Ma'savir did so, and Siddgeir shrugged. "I can't say I've seen any Khajiit caravans passing. Talk to my steward, Nenya. She's paid to care about these things." Ma'savir swallowed his irritation at the Jarl's blasé attitude, and an Altmer appeared at his elbow as the Jarl shouted her name into the air, taking a gulp of mead almost before finishing the last syllable.

"Hello," she said brightly, and ushered him away from the Jarl, putting a comforting hand on his arm as she did so. "I'll help you, Khajiit, don't worry. Just tell me your problems."

"I need to know. Have you seen any Khajiit caravans in the area?" Ma'savir asked quietly, and she nodded, ushering him into a side-room where a map sat on the table, with multiple flags of red and blue stuck into it at various locations.

"Just ignore the flags," she smiled, and took a piece of charcoal, sketching out a looping path that curled around the map until eventually it landed at Solitude. "This is the route Khajiit caravans usually take when they come into Skyrim. Are you new from Elsweyr?"

"No," Ma'savir said, and ran his finger along the map. "We've been living _here_ and _here_ for several years now," he said evenly, pointing at the map. "We often made- _make_ camp in the Reach. But we did not have a set path we would take. My father w- is a wanderer at heart."

"Well, the only path I can suggest you take is that one," Nenya continued, pushing a blonde strand of hair out of her face. "Up through The Rift and Eastmarch to Winterhold. They might have continued on to The Pale or Hjaalmarch, but Khajiit aren't too welcome up near Solitude… no offence." She looked apologetically at Ma'savir, who smiled back at her. "Sorry."

"None taken," he assured her, and she looked at him sideways.

"So, what's the story? A Khajiit, an Argonian and a Breton walk into Falkreath in armour that was quite clearly forcibly taken from some bandits." Ma'savir nodded, and then sighed.

"It's quite a story, actually…"

* * *

"..._when his ugly red head rolled around on the floor_!" Milos sang, and gave the lute a final strum before taking a bow and waving it around like a victory banner. He was _enjoying _this; the three hunters at the bar were cheering him on, and Narri was definitely giving him the eye as she watched him play.

He wasn't sure who had handed him the lute, but bottles of mead were clanking around and at least four had been pushed into his hands, none of which he had offered coin for. This was going well, especially since he'd never played a lute before in his life. The strings tended to rot in the wet of the Black Marshes. A guy called Sam was shouting encouragement with every gulp that he took of the mead, and the world was beginning to blur pleasantly at the edges.

"He's going green!" someone called from the back, and he pointed a hand at the perpetrator, or one of the two that he could see in front of him.

"How can you tell?" someone else laughed, and that did it.

"How d-dare you accuse me of of turning green?" he slurred in the heckler's general direction, and there was an 'ooh' of general intrigue. The crowd parted, and the Breton, Sam, who Milos vaguely remembered as having the last name 'Guevenne', was stood there.

"I bet I can drink as much as you have already in half the time, and then match you drink for drink," Sam called, and Milos nodded, staggering forwards amid general cheers.

Ma'savir was first to the inn as pink began to colour the sky, and as he walked in he saw Milos fall backwards over the bench, Sam Guevenne raising an eyebrow as the small crowd roared its approval.

"He could've been a champion," the Breton sighed, and stood up. "I'll leave him to you." He vanished in the general direction of the door, and Milos looked up at Ma'savir from the floor.

"Who's a cutie kitty?" he giggled, and passed out.

* * *

"He is going to feel rather… ill in the morning," Ma'savir said quietly to Arbelle, who was still giggling faintly at the drunken mess they had just hauled into their room in the inn. Milos had kissed her on the cheek and called her a 'brushing bleauty' before falling asleep face-down on the only bed in the room. The other two had their sleeping rolls, so they were alright, but Ma'savir was still somewhat disgruntled.

"Listen, I was wondering if we could talk about my leaving," Arbelle said, voice suddenly more serious, and Ma'savir turned to her, raising an eyebrow.

"You should leave in the morning. Setting off into the night would be unsafe," he recommended, and she shook her head, staring into the fire and watching as the flames sparkled and crackled, spatters of light flickering up towards the ceiling. "Why do you want to go now?"

"I - don't. I don't want to leave you," she said quietly, and he raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. "Ma'savir, I was thinking… i-in the graveyard." The Khajiit urged her on. "I have no family in Skyrim. No aunts, no uncles, nobody. And if you and Milos leave, I'm truly alone. So… I wanted to ask if I could go with you to where your family are."

There was silence between the two for a few minutes, as Ma'savir drank and absorbed the warmth of the fire and tried not to pretend he was secretly pleased. He had not wanted the girl to leave him. His mind flashed back to their conversation in Markarth, and he smiled. He had not wanted her with him then, in case she had been a weakness. He had been so wrong.

"It would be my honour," he smiled.

* * *

The next morning, a groggy Milos was sitting with a blanket over his head on the porch sipping at a glass of milk and occasionally hissing to himself in Argonian about his pain. Ma'savir was giving him no sympathy, but Arbelle was sitting next to him, crushing up snowberries and a little garlic and occasionally adding them to his drink.

"You'll be fine," she said, patting him on the back, and he looked at her.

"My head feels like it's been filled with chaurus eggs _and they're hatching_," he whispered mournfully, and took another gulp. "How much did I drink?"

"Nobody is sure, but your tab, if that Guevenne character hadn't been paying for it, was apparently enough to construct a new inn next to the old one," Ma'savir grinned. "Are we all ready?"

"Milos is coming too?" Arbelle asked, and Ma'savir nodded. He knew that the girl would have regretted leaving the lizard, even if she did not say so, and besides, the more of them the better. If he were to die, or something were to happen to him, Arbelle would be left alone, and he did not want that, even if it meant putting up with an annoying scale-tongue.

"We head for Riften. There, we can stop, get supplies. We need to find some form of work, because we will need real weapons. Then we head up through the Rift to Windhelm."

"We'll be really _welcome_ there," Milos sighed. The other two looked at him, and he shook his head. "In Windhelm, the Argonians are made to live in the docks, the Dark Elves confined to slums. Anyone who isn't a Nord is basically cast out." Ma'savir nodded cautiously. "And, of course, it's all Stormcloak territory…"

"Well, we'll see. Come on." Milos noticed that Arbelle was no longer wearing armour, but a long black robe that shimmered in the morning light. She noticed him looking, and smiled. "It's enchanted. It means I'll cast more powerful spells… I hope." She stood up, and Milos cast off the blanket, wincing as the bright sunlight hit his eyes.

"Let's go."

* * *

Veric and Nolene sat at the top of Bannermist Tower. Neither had quite regained enough breath to speak yet, but both were wearing hastily-donned bandit armour that the trio had passed up on when they had passed through, and were thanking the gods that the bandits in there were already dead. Below them lay the bodies of a few recently slain wolves.

"That… was close," Nolene eventually managed, and Veric nodded, portly chest heaving as he struggled to breathe.

"Thanks," he coughed. "For… distracting them."

"You'd've done… the same for me, right?" Nolene grinned, and Veric gave a chuckling laugh that turned into a cough.

"Damn right. C'mon," he gasped, and hauled himself to his feet. "We've got a bunch of kids to catch."


	12. Chapter 12

As the trio geared up to head out of Falkreath, Runil approached Arbelle and handed her a necklace.

"This is an amulet of Arkay," he told her. "Just remember that he is taking care of your parents now." She nodded and thanked him, and as Ma'savir laid a hand on her shoulder she smiled at his retreating back.

"So, we head for Peak's Shade Tower," Ma'savir said, and she turned to him. "Then we can make for Helgen and press onwards from there." They had received a better quality map from Nenya, possibly out of a sense of pity from the High Elf. "Assuming nothing terrible happens along the way, we are likely to make it to Helgen by midday tomorrow."

"I don't want to go anywhere," Milos groaned, hand on his head.

* * *

Nolene and Veric were sleeping at the top of the tower when a noise from the forest below awoke Veric. He blinked drowsily, before the quiet cursing alerted him to the presence of a stranger. Having had more than enough of strangers for that week, he crept to the edge of the tower and looked down.

The three bandits looked back up at him.

"Nolene," he whispered, shaking his companion. Nolene took a while to wake up, but when convinced of the severity of the situation, he was suddenly very much awake. Footsteps sounded on the steps, and Nolene jumped up as the three bandits arrived at the head of the stairs.

"What's this? Where are the rest of the guys?" the head bandits snapped, and Nolene shrugged. "You're wearing their bloody armour!"

"Everyone was dead when we got here," Veric said sharply. "We were being chased by wolves, we don't want any trouble."

"Well, you picked a bad time to get lost," the main guy snickered, and his two lackeys drew their swords. "I suggest you give us back our weapons, our armour, and anything else you might've stolen, and then we'll have a little discussion about whether or not we're taking some of your limbs as punishment…"

They were interrupted by the undeniable _whoosh_ of magic, and the five of them rushed to the edge of the tower. Below them stood the dead bandits and a few other slumped figures, not to mention the slain wolves, now surrounded by a flickering purple light, and one hooded figure that looked up, smiling.

"Not _him_ again!" Nolene groaned, and the bandit leader looked at him.

"You know this guy?" he asked worriedly, and Nolene pointed at an overly familiar zombie in Forsworn armour.

"That one there? That _was_ our boss, Edwinn," he explained, and the bandit leader nodded, slowly. "Do we have a plan?"

"Yes. It's called 'kill them all'," the bandit leader announced loudly, drawing his battleaxe, and Veric shook his head slowly as he looked thoughtful.

"We need to block off the stairs. If we block off the stairs, we can take them out before they rush us…"

"Hello there!" called the man at the base of the tower.

There was silence, and then the bandit leader elbowed Nolene.

"You're the one who's met him before. You can talk to him."

"Start blocking off the stairs," Nolene whispered to Veric, the bandit leader nudging his two compatriots, and then waved down to the figure.

"Are you going to kill us?" he asked, and the man tilted his head.

"Probably, yes," he smiled. "You do have a choice, though. You can let me kill you very quickly and painlessly, which I would prefer as your corpses would be much more durable. Or you can let my pets hack you to death, which would lead to the same end. However, that would be to nobody's benefit, as then your corpses could be unusable. It is five versus eleven, so I will win."

Veric and the other bandits were lugging stones from the collapsing walls about noisily, and Nolene adjusted his voice to cover it accordingly.

"What if we're enjoying being alive?" he asked, and Cidius tilted his head.

"_Why_?"

Nolene blinked, and the bandit chief leant over the edge.

"Hello. My name's Hakar," he said conversationally. "Well, being alive means you get to fight people, drink mead, dally with beautiful women… you know, lots of things."

"Such banality," Cidius sighed. "You honestly squander your lives on such small things, and find pleasure from it?"

"Yes," Hakar said slowly. "I don't quite see the question here…"

"Done," the orc bandit whispered.

"Well, that's enough chit-chat," the Forsworn nodded brightly, and swung the bow from his back, plucking an arrow from his quiver. One of the dead bandits was suddenly collapsing, and Cidius eyes narrowed. "I make that five versus _ten_, now. If _you_ can fight."

* * *

"Peak's Shade Tower," Milos murmured to himself as the weak sun glimmered through heavy clouds that threatened snow. "Sounds cold. Although, to be fair, right now everything sounds cold…"

"Having fur right now would be good, eh, lizard?" Ma'savir snickered, and Milos shot him an amber glare. "Well, here it is. We should walk past it, but does anyone want to go in for a treasure hunt?" The plan was eagerly accepted by Arbelle, but Milos shook his head, wanting to stay in what little sunlight remained.

They walked up the trail to the tower, shivering as they stepped into the shade of the mountain the turret was named for, and peered in. Ma'savir glanced over the cracked stones and weeds pushing through the mortar. It would have been striking, when it still stood; even now, the plants seemed to be resisting the cold of the season and were bright and beautiful amongst the green.

"It must have been abandoned for-"

There was a buzzing sound and then Arbelle felt a sharp crack of pain across her shoulders, pitching forward into the long grass. She hissed as her chin smacked into the cracked-stone floor, and heard Ma'savir yowl in pain.

She rolled over and the Spriggan swiped at her eyes with long, twig-fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut, blasting a jet of fire upwards, and a scraping sound told her the Khajiit had some fight left in him. She opened her eyes, and the Spriggan fell to the ground, silent.

Ma'savir pulled her to her feet, and knelt next to the body, reaching out to touch it.

"Do you… think it is dead?" he asked.

* * *

Milos, who had been watching the tower, saw a flash of golden light, and sprinted up the dirt path to the tower. Inside, Ma'savir was lying against a wall, eyes almost crossed in his apparent concussion, and Arbelle was bleeding, hunched against a wall, fire barely sputtering from her hands. Their attacker was looming over them, wooden fingers flexing menacingly.

"Hey!" he shouted, and the Spriggan turned, hissing at him. "C'mere, Roots. Pick on someone your own size!" He swung for it with his sword, and it danced neatly to the side. "Come here, you heap of firewood…"

He slashed at it again and it shrieked, lunging for him; a quickly-raised shield sent it tumbling backwards, and he hacked at it again, before skewering it on the sword. It fell to the ground, and he stood on its chest, slicing at it until he was satisfied it wasn't getting up.

He pulled Arbelle to her feet and together they managed to get Ma'savir upright. He was still dizzy from hitting his head on the wall, and Arbelle pulled an elves ear leaf from her pocket and lit it under his nose. The bitter scent made him cough for a moment, and then he swatted them both away.

"I'm… I'm fine." He bent over, and Arbelle pushed a potion into his hands, taking it back for a moment to take a gulp and then giving it back to him.

"I think my nose is broken," she murmured.

* * *

"I was going to _use_ those."

The necromancer was sitting on a rock opposite the tower, glaring as Nolene shot another arrow into a corpse that fluttered into ash. They had only killed two of them - some ungodly magic made them tougher to kill than a walking rock - but none of them had broken through the barrier that Veric and the other two were keeping built up. They actually had a sense they might win.

"I'm bored," Cidius announced, and suddenly the onslaught… stopped. "I believe I will let you all live… for now. No sense in letting you destroy all of my pets. But be warned. I _will_ come back… and you will serve under me." He smiled, pulled up his hood, and his dead army stumbled after him.

Nolene and Hakar waited until they were out of sight, and then slumped against the walls, bows clattering to the floor.

"What just happened? What kind of power was that?" Hakar gasped, and Nolene shook his head as the bandits and Veric sat down opposite them.

"Good fight," he grinned, and stretched out his hand to Hakar, who shook their hands in turn.

"You keep that armour," Hakar grinned. "You've earned it. And if you ever need help, Hakar's gang are at your service."

* * *

Ma'savir had protested that he was more than well enough to make it to Riften, and so they had continued on, Milos supporting Ma'savir until he could walk again. The Khajiit had not admitted he was grateful for the Argonian's help, but he had not insulted him for a fair distance, and so Milos was trying to be grateful.

"Stop!"

The three of them stopped, and the bandit - it was very clearly a bandit - on top of the bridge leered down at them. Milos put a hand to his head.

"Can you not…"

"There's a toll for going through here, kids!" the bandit crowed. "Now, you're only little, aren't you, so we'll give you a little discount… one hundred and fifty Septims. Each."

"Hold him," Milos growled, and pushed Ma'savir onto Arbelle, who grabbed him. "We have just been ripped apart by a Spriggan. We're chasing a Khajiit caravan, we've got no money, our armour and weapons were stolen from bandits," he stopped to let that sink in, and then continued, "I am _really _hung-over, and we are _not in the mood_ for you guys to try this _dung_."

There was a moment, and the bandit put his hand up before scurrying over the bridge to where another two bandits were hidden. There was a hurried conversation, during which the bandit pointed at their armour multiple times, and the words 'caravans' were mentioned, which made Ma'savir's pointed ears prick up.

"We're prepared to offer a fifty Septim deal. It'd cover all of you," the bandit said, and Milos growled. "Did I say fifty? I meant forty."

Eventually forty Septims was scrounged together and Milos threw the bag up.

"Thanks very much. Good luck on your journey," the bandit said, and they continued onwards. The road began to slope upwards, and a little bit of snow began to appear as they walked, Ma'savir eventually walking by himself again. Arbelle kept giving him sips of a healing potion, and he eventually chirped up.

They passed a cottage, and as a howl rolled over the landscape the three of them froze.

"Is there anything here that _isn't_ trying to kill us?" Milos snapped, and Arbelle sighed.

"High Rock was so much better."

"So was Elseweyr."

"So was the Black Marsh."

A wolf came barrelling over the rocks, and was quickly dispatched by a fireball to the head; the next one was speared by two daggers as it reached the trio. This left them staring at a tiny little cottage, which - with reference to the map - turned out to be called Pinewatch.

"Reckon there's more bandits in there?" Arbelle asked.

"They mentioned caravans. I will go in and ask if my family went past no matter _who_ lives in there," Ma'savir said firmly, and they approached the cottage. To their surprise, the door swung open under their touch, and they walked into the cottage.

It was empty. Slightly too empty, they all thought as they looked around.

"Hello?" Ma'savir called, and Arbelle knelt down to peer into the basement. "Come on, no harm in exploring. The door was open. What if the occupant is injured?"

"We've technically broken in," Milos pointed out, and Ma'savir grabbed his arm, dragging him down the stairs. Arbelle followed, and a search of the basement revealed… nothing.

"_Damn_ it!" Ma'savir snapped, and punched the wall.

The wardrobe swung outwards.

"You must be kidding me," Arbelle gaped, and Ma'savir stared at the tunnel beyond, and then began to search the section of stone that he had struck in anger. A tiny, red button was revealed. "By Nocturnal…"

"What are we going to find in here?" Milos asked, fear more than clouding his voice. It downright _thunderstormed_ it. "I mean, bandits, I can shout at, but…"

But Ma'savir had vanished.

* * *

"This is where we part ways, but no bandit will touch you in Falkreath," Hakar said warmly, shaking the two Forsworn's hands. "I'll see to it. Where are you headed now?"

"We're hunting some kids across Falkreath. No idea where they've gone, though, so I guess we'll head to the capital," Veric said, and Hakar nodded.

"Well, when you get there, you must tell the Jarl of this. No necromancer should have that kind of power," the Nord murmured, shuddering. "And then I'd get back to High Rock and away from this trouble."

"Thanks," Nolene grinned, and they turned, wandering down the path that led between towering pines. It was getting colder as the clouds tinged the sky with silver streaks, but they could make it to Falkreath and shelter before it began to snow. All they wished for for was that they didn't run into the necromancer again.

Crossing into Falkreath, they wasted no time in kneeling before Jarl Siddgeir, and he listened to their story with what could only be described as casual disbelief.

"I'm going to have to ask you to repeat that story to my uncle. I don't deal with these kinds of things, you see," he said. "I'm the Jarl. I deal with matters of importance."

A little disbelieving of what they had heard, the two Forsworn were ushered into a room where Nenya and Dengeir were waiting, having eavesdropped on the conversation. Dengeir listened to the repeat with interest bordering on paranoia, but Nenya had her almond-shaped eyes fixed on the two with suspicion.

"How did you come to be in our hold?" she asked, and the two looked at each other.

"We're pursuing some criminals," Nolene lied, and she nodded.

"A Khajiit, an Argonian and a Breton?" she asked, and they nodded. "That's odd, because by their accounts, _you're _the criminals… Forsworn."

* * *

"This is spooky. I don't like this," Milos murmured, as they edged forward. Arbelle was holding a torch, and leading the way, with a fistful of flame. "You really need some new spells. A spell of light would be nice. Do they have those?"

"Yes, but…" The tunnel opened up, and Arbelle gasped, the sound echoing around the room. "_Look_!"

They were on a walkway in what appeared to be an enormous cavern, filled with dank mists. Milos shivered, and Ma'savir touched a paw to his arm.

"D-don't do well in the c-c-cold. Too s-scaly. No in-insulation," he stammered.

"Arbelle, find him one of the blankets in the packs. I am going to investigate." He dropped from the edge, landing light as a feather on the floor, and Arbelle sat Milos down, wrapping him in a blanket.

"You're going to be alright," she reassured him, and lit up both of her hands in front of him. "Perhaps we need to find you some warmer armour?" Milos grinned at her shakily, and huddled closer to it. "How _are_ you going to survive in the snows?"

"Hey, I'm no c-c-cold-blood," he protested. "I j-just don't l-like the cold." She touched him, and recoiled. It was like the touch of an ice-wraith.

"_Arbelle_."

Ma'savir's voice sounded… wrong as it echoed up from the chamber below. Arbelle made sure Milos was wrapped up, and then carefully clambered down to him. He was facing away from her as she approached, looking at a grill on which rested two dark shapes.

"Ma'savir, Milos will freeze to death if we don't…" she began, and then stopped.

The dark shapes in front of him were Khajiit corpses.


	13. Chapter 13

"Ma'savir," Arbelle whispered, and the Khajiit knelt next to the bodies, gently stroking their heads.

"Jo'Rakha," he breathed, closing one of the corpse's eyes. "Shabhira."

"Your parents?" Arbelle whispered. He shook his head, and turned to her. His eyes were shining in a way that made her take a step back.

"They travel with us. They are as an aunt and uncle would be to you. If they are dead, it is _most_ unlikely my parents are alive," he murmured. "These… these Nord _dogs_ have murdered my family, and I will not leave these caves until either myself or they are _dead_."

"Ma'savir, there's no other bodies in the pit," Arbelle reasoned softly, and Ma'savir shrugged. His claws slid out from the pads of his fingers. "Surely they would have left them there?"

"Are you trying to justify this?" he asked softly, voice hissing from between his fangs, and she stepped forward, hands up, placating. "Are you trying to make this right?"

"No. No, Ma'savir, for the sake of the Divines, no," Arbelle said, and felt a little anger rise inside her. "I lost my mother as well!"

"I lost my _entire family_," he murmured, not even looking at her. "You… you…"

"I _what_?" she snapped, stepping forward, and he lashed out, without looking, without even thinking. He knocked her back, red slices opening up across her chest, and she staggered up, teeth bared. A gout of flame burst forth from her hands and knocked him clear across the room, and as he leapt back up, ready to possibly rip her open, he found himself looking at the tip of a sword.

"L-leave her al-lone," Milos shivered, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Arbelle tried to pull him aside, hands still blazing. "Arbelle, get back or you'll probably kill him."

"He can take his chances in these damn caves," Arbelle snarled. "Your catastrophe is no greater than ours! We've _all_ lost our families!" She turned, sobbing, and Milos kept his sword at Ma'savir.

"You make a choice. You sober up, realise your parents may well be dead, and you come with us, or you jump to a conclusion and you follow a path that starts at that door and ends I don't know where," Milos said calmly. Ma'savir looked at him, and then sprinted through the doorway.

* * *

Arbelle and Milos emerged from the cottage into barely-there daylight, and began walking, neither wanting to speak. Flakes of snow had begun to fall from the sky, and Arbelle wrapped the other blanket around the Argonian. They continued walking past a group of bandits, who did not bother them, but watched them pass wordlessly. Their toll had been paid, she supposed.

"Where do we go now? We're not… I mean… what reason…" Milos asked, and Arbelle shrugged.

"We will find jobs somewhere," she murmured, her voice empty. "We should hit Helgen soon. We have more food than we had previously accounted for. I'm certain we can continue on around the mountain to Iverstead, or even on to Riften. I'm sure there is plenty of opportunities for us to find work, or money, or steal something." She sounded so hollow that Milos wrapped his arms around her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Then we go on, to Helgen and then Iverstead. Riverwood isn't far from Helgen, you know," he said, and she shook her head.

"It's very open on the plains of Whiterun, and anything before that is Falkreath. I just want to leave." He could not blame her, and so they continued on.

* * *

"Hello."

The man stood in the flooded cell had long, blond hair, and wasn't wearing any shoes. Since they were in a prison, this wasn't particularly odd, but what _was_ odd was his teeth. He was a child murderer, the guard had told them, but even that wasn't enough to justify how _sharp_ his teeth looked.

"Would you like this ring?" he continued, and Veric shook his head very slowly, backing away from the bars. Even though he was around the corner, it felt a little as if he could still see them somehow. "It's free, you know. Gifted to me from Hircine himself." The name of the god of the hunt caused Veric's eye to twitch as he heard the howls of the wolves that had chased them. "Please, please take it from me. Please."

"Shut up, child-murderer," the guard said lazily, leafing through his book.

"We have to get out," Veric mouthed to Nolene, who nodded.

"You need to make a distraction," he said quietly. "Get the guard over to that corner. I need a few moments alone with the door."

"The door is in plain view of the guard. He could be _around the corner_ and he would be able to see the door," Veric hissed. "This is a silly idea."

"Just do it!" Nolene snapped as quietly as he could.

"Guard?" Veric called, and the guard looked up, angle of head indicating that he was already completely done with this situation. "I need to use the… I have a… there's a knife in my pants and I need _you_ to come get it out or I might stab everyone."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," the guard said casually, but as Veric's hand drifted towards his belt he jumped up, grabbing his sword and holding it in one hand lightly. It was incentive for Veric to move very slowly. "Where's this knife, Forsworn?"

"It's… my god, what the hell is that on your sword hilt?" Veric asked, and the guard stepped back before looking down. Dangerously savvy. "That green _sheen_ on the metal. Have you been storing it in a shed, man?"

"I live in the middle of a forest," the guard said defensively. "At least I don't make mine out of twigs and stone." Veric rolled his eyes, and gestured towards the weapon, aware that Nolene had crept towards the door and had slid a lock pick from his sleeve, surreptitiously trying to pick the lock.

"I bet you barely even sharpen it, do you," he sighed. "Who smithed it for you, eh? Your father?" The guard shook his head. "If you made that yourself, I wouldn't be too proud."

"I maintain my sword like I maintain my dignity, butterball!" the guard snapped, and Veric crossed his arms and stepped back, forcing the man to step forward to continue the argument.

"Then I question your dignity. If I can live in the Reach, where rain falls like… like rain," he recovered magnificently, "with a sword made of shale and branches, and _still_ have a better quality sword than you…" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nolene drop the lock pick and began to sweat profusely. "…then we have a serious problem with weapon maintenance."

Nolene picked up the lockpick, only to drop it again, and Veric sighed, reaching out to grab the surprised guard and slamming his head into the bars. The helmet let out a dull ringing sound, and the guard fell to the floor, allowing Veric time to snatch the sword and the keys from him.

"_Honestly_," he snapped to Nolene, unlocking the door. "You get these Nords talking about their weapons…"

* * *

Ma'savir stood in the pool of blood, chest heaving, and glanced around him. He had slaughtered them; nobody had been expecting him to dash in, claws bared, moon-eyes glowing with hatred, and in the rush he had barely taken a blow. There was a line along his arm that, once it healed, would remain smooth and hairless for the rest of his life, but for now his eyes fixed on the one living member of the group.

He padded over, paws clicking against the floor, and pulled them to their feet, hands slippery in the blood that coated their tunic.

"There were four Khajiit in the caravan you stopped," he hissed, and the bandit shook, refusing to look into his eyes. "This one's mother and father. Tell me, bandit, where did you put their bodies after you murdered them like _animals_?"

"I-I swear by Ysmir…" the man stuttered, and Ma'savir rested the claws of his free hand next to the man's eyes. "Cat, I swear to you…!"

"_Talk_."

"There were two that got away," the man babbled, eyes filled with horror. "A-a man and a woman. They saw us coming and armed themselves. We got them in here but as we knocked off the other two they ran into the caves. We couldn't find 'em after searching end to end," he added, and Ma'savir's claws retracted. "Please don't bite me to death or anything."

Ma'savir stared at him, and then at the tunnel that led further away. He could see the paw prints in the thin layer of dirt that covered the floor. It stood to reason the dull-witted bandits had missed them.

"We reckon they waited 'til we'd gone past and then ran," the bandit added, reasoning that if he was still talking, the Khajiit had less reason to kill him. "One of our horses had gone when we got outside. If they're your parents, they're alive. I'm sorry, I just do this to feed my kid, _please don't kill me_…"

Ma'savir dropped him, and padded onwards into the caves, eyes suddenly dim and grey.

* * *

The Argonian and the Breton arrived at the gates to Helgen at midday, both silent. The gates were open, and the two walked in. It seemed like any other quiet little village in Skyrim.

"We should ask if there's been anything unusual on the road to Riften," Milos said quietly. Stares were being directed at them. "Let's go to the inn. If anyone sees strangers that come through the town, it'll be the innkeeper."

Arbelle nodded silently, speckles of white snow dotting her hair, and Milos watched as she began to walk towards the inn, black robe around her small frame. She was his charge now - no, that implied she was helpless. She was merely naïve, he told himself. She would help him, and he would help her. No thanks to that bloody cat…

"Greetings!" the innkeeper grinned as they walked in. "The name's Vilod. Why don't you two come in from the cold?" The inn was almost empty, but they both grabbed chairs next to the fire pit and huddled together anyway. "Would you like some juniper mead? All the tang of the berries with the sweetness of the mead!"

"What does he think this is, a trading fair?" Milos mumbled, and Arbelle stared into the fire.

"Why does everyone leave me?" she asked, suddenly, and Milos looked at her. "My father left me. My mother left me. And now Ma'savir left me." She looked at him with all the forthright frankness of a child. "Are you going to leave me?"

"Arbelle, apart from those few hours where I planned to murder you and the cat, nothing could be further from my mind," Milos said firmly, and she nodded. "Now, let's get some mead in you. It'll warm you up, and we have quite a way to walk in the snow."

* * *

The paw prints ended behind a rock, but Ma'savir saw the paper with his night-eyes before he had even reached them. He assumed they had swept out the prints of their return journey with their tails, a tip they had taught him when he was a cub.

He plucked up the piece of paper. The writing was in Ta'agra.

"Whomever finds this," he read. "If you can read this, there is a chance you have met our son, Ma'savir. You may be him. We are escaping from this cave, and we will run - back to Elseweyr, if need be. If you meet our child, give him this letter, and assure him that if we do not meet him again, we are walking upon warmer sands. Kahr and T-Ash'ni."

Suddenly, a wave of emotions slid over him, and he could not hold it anymore; he sunk to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut in anguish. Would he never know? Would his parents always be one step ahead of him? His claws dug into the pads of his paws as he let out a grief-stricken yowl of agony, teeth gnashing with impotent fury. He had let the two people who cared for him most go; in fact, he had attacked them, drawing his claws against them. They could be halfway to Morrowind by now. He had rashly sacrificed their companionship for his own gratification - gratification that, he knew now, did not lie here. The path Milos had referred to had ended here, on his knees.

He started as a pair of cool hands slid softly over his eyes, and as he lifted his paws, suddenly heavy, to remove them, there was a kind whisper in his ear.

"Oh, my child. You _have_ made a mistake."

The smell of perfume was suddenly thick in his nose, and he inhaled juniper and roses and cinnamon, the heady vapours almost lifting him from his dejection as they tantalised his senses. As he raised a paw to the hands over his eyes, thick pads brushing against the smooth skin, the voice spoke again.

"You must not look too long; all mortals in this realm go blind in an attempt to comprehend." Ma'savir felt a shiver run down his spine; where _was_ he? Who was this woman whispering into his ears? He already knew, really, but it was hard to believe that…

"Azurah," he whispered as the hands were moved, his companion gently walking to his side and his senses were immediately overwhelmed.

Everwhere seemed to be formed of soft blazes of colours; the twilit sky a blend of purples and reds and yellows that never quite seemed to fade to night as they mingled in a blinding aurora. Before him stretched a garden of roses of all beautiful and subtle colours; blues of the deepest sea; pinks of the rosiest dawns; reds of the heartblood; silver as the stars; golden as coins; their green stems intertwining with silver columns that towered over him, shadows streaming in confused directions around the beautiful woman that stood before him, hands glowing with a crescent and a star.

"Do not despair," Azura said softly. "I know that which you have lost, and it _is_ a great burden; but you did not bear it alone." Her soft reprimanded made Ma'savir close his eyes again, cradling his head in his paws. "But there is work to be done, and you have been chosen as my playing piece in this game."

He looked up at her again, taking in the soft, silver waves of her hair; her faint, expectant smile. This was the Daedra who had created his people, and she had come to ask something of _him_? He nodded dumbly, falling to bended knee before her. She laid a hand upon his forehead, and spoke again.

"You must hasten to beyond Helgen, my child, and catch your companions. There is a greater magic than you can imagine at work in Nirn, and you will be instrumental in stopping it." She wrung her hands before her as she spoke, causing a conflagration of golden and silver light. "You are to be the Morning Star, Ma'savir. Now hurry, and find your companions." She grasped his hands, and suddenly he was in the mine, the dull walls suddenly encasing him once more. He stumbled to his feet, eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light, and began to run.

* * *

"Here you go," Vilod said, pushing the two amber bottles down the bar. "You two heading for Whiterun, I suppose? Or Falkreath?"

"We head for Riften," Arbelle corrected him, taking a sip of the juniper mead. She was hunched over at the end of the bar, and was doing her best to avoid talking to anyone, Milos included.

"We need to find somewhere I'm allowed into as well," the Argonian added quietly, taking a substantially larger sip. Vilod tried to look as kindly as he could at the two of them, and opened his mouth, presumably to insert his foot.

"Never seen a Breton _fleeing_ the Reach before," he attempted jovially. "I guess you'll be hungry?" Arbelle looked up at him, and shook her head. Truth be told, her stomach felt like someone had sucked the air out with a spell. Milos elbowed her in the ribs.

"We best have something to eat," he said, firmly. "No knowing if there'll be food for us along the way. What do you have?" Vilod relaxed a little. This was his territory; not depressed young Breton women with bodyguards that were thinner than them and definitely on the scaly side.

"Drink for the thirsty, food for the hungry!" he beamed.

"I believe we established we wanted food," Arbelle muttered, and swallowed down half a bottle of mead as both Milos and Vilod stared at her.


End file.
